
Book X-^ 
GopghtN^ 

COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT. 



>, 










JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL. 



THE EARLY POEMS 

OF J 

James Russell Lowell 



INCLUDING 

THE BIGLOW papers 



WITH BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH 
By henry KETCHAM 



NEW YORK 
A. L. BURT, PUBLISHER 



U. 



Library of C»no»re»s 

I Tw© CeriES R€i€«"€§ | 
JUN 27 1900 I 

JUN 2Q l.qno 



64443 

Copyright, 1900, by A. L. Burt. 



BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. 

BY 

HENRY KETCHAM. 



LowelVs Poems. 



CONTENTS. 



, PAGE 

Biographical Sketch vii 

THE BIGLOW PAPERS. 

No. I. — A letter from Mr. Ezekiel Biglow of Jaalam to 
the Hon Joseph T. Buckingham, Editor of the Boston 
Courier, inclosing a Poem of his Son, Mr. Hosea 
Biglow 37 

No. n. — A letter from Mr. Hosea Biglow to the Hon. 
J. T. Buckingham, Editor of the Boston Courier, 
covering a Letter from Mr. B. Sawin, Private in the 
Massachusetts Regiment 46 

No. HI.— What Mr. Robinson thinks 60 

No. IV. — Remarks of Increase D. O'Phace, Esquire, at 
an Extrumpery Caucus in State Street, reported by- 
Mr. H. Biglow 73 

No. 5. — The Debate in the Sennit. Sot to a Nusry Rhyme 87 

No. VI.— The Pious Editor's Creed 96 

No. VII. — A Letter from a Candidate for the Presidency 
in Answer to suttin Questions proposed by Mr. 
Hosea Biglow, inclosed in a Note from Mr. Biglow 
to S. H. Gay, Esq., Editor of the National Anti- 
slavery Standard 106 

No. VIII.— A Second Letter from B. Sawin, Esq 118 

No. IX.— A Third Letter from B. Sawin, Esq 136 

A Fable for Critics 153 

The Vision of Sir Launfal 227 

Appledore , 240 

To the Dandelion 242 

Para 245 

To J. F. H 247 

iii 



iv CONTENTS. 

PAGS 

Prometheus 249 

Rosaline 260 

Sonnet 265 

A Glance behind the Curtain 265 

A Song ! 274 

The Moon 275 

The Fatherland 276 

A Parable 277 

On the Death of a Friend's Child 279 

An Incident in a Railroad Car 282 

A.n Incident of the Fire at Hamburgh 284 

Sonnets 287 

The Unhappy Lot of Mr. Knott 290 

Hakon's Lay 318 

To the Future 320 

Out of Doors 323 

A Reverie 325 

In Sadness 327 

Farewell 329 

A Dirge 333 

Fancies about a Rosebud 339 

New Year's Eve, 1844 341 

A Mystical Ballad 346 

Opening Poem to " A Year's Life " 350 

Dedication to " A Year's Life " 350 

Threnodia 351 

The Serenade 355 

Song 357 

The Departed 358 

The Bobolink 362 

Forgetfulness 366 

Song 366 

The Poet 367 

Flowers 369 

The Lover 374 

ToE. W. G 375 

Isabel 378 

Musjc. ....,, , , , , 379 



CONTENTS. V 

PAaE 

Song 384 

lanthe 386 

Love's Altar 392 

My Love 393 

With a Pressed Flower 396 

Impartiality 397 

Bellerophon 398 

Something Natural 403 

The Sirens 403 

A Feeling 407 

The Beggar 408 

Serenade 409 

Irene 410 

The Lost Child 413 

The Church 414 

The Unlovely 416 

Love-Song 418 

Song 419 

A Love-Dream 421 

Fourth of July Ode 423 

Sphinx 424 

" Goe, Little Booke " 426 

Sonnets : 

I. Disappointment 429 

II. Great Human Nature 429 

HI. To a Friend 430 

IV. So may it be 430 

V. O Child of Nature 431 

VI. " For this true nobleness " 431 

VII. To 432 

VIII. Might I but be beloved 432 

IX. Why should we ever weary ? 433 

X. Green Mountains 433 

XL My Friend, adovvn Life's Valley 434 

XII. Verse cannot say 434 

XIII. The soul would fain 435 

XIV. I saw a gate 435 



vi CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

Sonnets : 

XV. I would not have this perfect love 436 

XVI. To the dark, narrow house 436 

XVII. I fain would give to thee 437 

XVIII. Much I had mused of Love 437 

XIX. Sayest thou, most beautiful 438 

XX. Poet, who sittest in thy pleasant room 438 

XXI. " No more but so ? " 439 

XXII. To a Voice heard in Mount Auburn 439 

^XIII. On Reading Spenser again 440 

XXIV. Light of mine eyes ! 440 

XXV. Silent as one who treads 441 

XXVI. A gentleness that grows , 441 

XXVII. When the glad soul 442 

XXVIIL To the Evening-Star 442 

XXIX. Reading 443 

XXX. To , after a Snow-Storm 443 

Sonnets on Names : 

L Edith 445 

II. Rose 445 

m. Mary 446 

IV. Caroline 446 

V. Anne 447 



BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. 

The genius of James Russell Lowell places him in 
the front rank of American poets. He is one of the few 
who are read and appreciated on both sides of the At- 
lantic. He made his mark in his earliest published 
volume, when he was but twenty-two years of age. 
From that time to the end of a long career he grew 
steadily in fame. Nor did his power wane, while his 
literary form showed an increasing perfection of polish. 

He was born in Cambridge, Mass., Feb. 22, 1819. 
His father was the Eev. Charles Lowell, D.D., minister 
of the West Church (Unitarian) of Boston, a scholar 
of high standing and author of several devotional 
books. He was descended from Percival Lowell, who 
came from England in 1639 and settled in Kewbury, 
Mass. The subject of this sketch showed throughout 
life a fine example of the Puritan conscience, joined 
with a rare tenderness of nature and winsomeness of 
character. While he never lacked the moral courage 
which dared to stand 

" in the right with two or three," 

his nature and method were gentle and persuasive 
rather than severe or antagonizing. 

He was more than a poet. He was symmetrically 
developed as a man of letters. To his admirers he 
was the ideal man of letters. As such his life was 

vii 



Viii BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. 

quiet, and his biography will record the growth and 
products of his mind rather than external events which 
were never romantic. 

He was graduated from Harvard College in 1838. At 
that time he was class poet, but the reading of the 
poems was omitted from the exercises of Class Day 
owing to the unavoidable absence of the poet. This 
absence was caused by the fact that at just that time 
he happened to be under suspension from the college. 
His offence, however, was playful and in no wise seri- 
ous, and his Alma Mater never ceased to do him honor 
in after years. 

On leaving college Lowell entered a law office and 
after the usual preliminary studies was, in 1840, ad- 
mitted to the bar. He was, however, by nature a man 
of letters and was unsuited to the peculiar exactions 
of the legal profession. One is therefore not surprised 
that there is no record of his practice of the law, but 
there was a tolerably steady stream of poems, essays 
and reviews flowing from his facile pen. 

The first year of his nominal law practice records a 
volume of poems (1841) entitled ^^ A Year's Life." In 
this were evidences that he was a true seer, a genuine 
poet. His friends recognized the promise of a brilliant 
career, and they were not mistaken. 

Two years later he became editor of a magazine of 
which, however, only three numbers were issued. A 
year after that he issued another volume of poems. 

In this year, 1844, he married Miss Maria White, of 
"Watertown, Mass. She was a charming and accom- 
plished woman, possessing literary talent of no mean 
order. To her translations from the German she 
added original poems of more than ordinary merit. 



BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. {^ 

She died in 1853, and it was her death which elicited 
from Longfellow one of the sweetest and most beautiful 
of all poems on death. It is that entitled Two Angels. 

'T was at thy door, O friend, and not at mine, 
The angel with the amaranthine wreath, 

Pausing, descended, and, with voice divine. 
Whispered a word that had a sound Hke death. 

Then fell upon the house a sudden gloom, 
A shadoV on those features fair and thin. 

And softly, from that hushed and darkened room, 
Two angels issued where but one went in. 

In 1845 he published a volume of essays, " Conver- 
sations on Some of the Poets/' and thus we see that he 
was permanently out of the current of the law and in 
that of literature. 

In 1848 he published a volume that contained what 
have proved to be two of his most popular poems : 
namely, The Vision of Sir Launfal and The Biglow 
Papers. 

In 1851-2 he made his first trip to Europe. Most 
of the time he spent in Italy, especially in Eome with 
his friend AV. W. Story, the famous sculptor. In 
1854-5 he delivered the Lowell Institute lectures on 
'* British Poets." 

The most important event occurred that year when 
he was appointed professor of Belles Lettres at Harvard 
to succeed his distinguished friend H. W. Longfellow. 
Before assuming the duties of the professorhip he spent 
another year in Europe, chiefly in Dresden. 

In 1857 he married Miss Frances Dunlaji of Portland, 
Maine. 

When the Atlantic Monthly was established he was 



X BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. 

its first regular editor, and continued in that work for 
about five years, or from 1857 to 1862. Kelinquishing 
this he edited the North American Keview, then a quar- 
terly, for a period, of about ten years. In addition to 
his editorial work he contributed a large number of 
articles to this magazine, — thirty-four in all, not count- 
ing editorial notes, etc. During these fifteen years of 
editorship, while he had also the duties of professor, his 
general literary work did not lag, and he issued vol- 
umes both of poetry and of prose. 

In 1872-4 he again travelled in Europe, receiving the 
unusual honors of the degrees of D. C. L. from the 
University of Oxford, and LL.D. from that of Cam- 
bridge, England. 

In 1877 he was appointed Minister to Spain, and 
took up the duties of a post made illustrious by 
Irving. The lustre of the literary tradition suffered 
no diminution in his incumbency. 

He was later (1880-5) minister to England, and it is 
not too much to say that in that difficult and exacting 
position he stands second to none of all who have ever 
served. His honest, sturdy, and outspoken democracy, 
his fineness of culture, his breadth of spirit, and his 
genial persuasiveness have had incalculable influence 
in promoting the friendliness between Americans and 
their British cousins. At this time he was honored 
by being appointed Lord Eector of St. Andrews Uni- 
versity at St. Andrews, Scotland. But he soon resigned 
this position as being incompatible with his obliga- 
tions as minister of the United States. 

In his later years he published several volumes of 
essays and addresses, the latter being largely on pa- 
triotic or democratic subjects. The excellonce of their 



BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. xi 

substance and the finish of their form entitle them to 
a permanent place in literature. They are, however, 
outside the scope of this sketch, which concerns Lowell 
as a poet. 

Lowell was one of a remarkable circle of literary 
friends, such as has hardly existed before in all his- 
tory, and certainly never in tiie United States. His 
friendships included Longfellow, Emerson, E. H. 
Dana, W. AY. Story, Fields, Holmes, Whittier, Agas- 
siz, E. E. Hale, and others of nearly equal prominence. 
Such friendship greatly enriched his life, but it in no 
wise quenched his originality nor weakened his vigor. 

In looking over his poetical works for a critical esti- 
mate, we find no one poem which towers up above 
the rest, like Milton's Paradise Lost, Byron^s Childe 
Harold, or Wordsworth's Excursion. But there are 
many shorter ones, each of which is sufficient to justify 
the high reputation which he holds on both sides of 
the Atlantic. In his first published volume, there is 
one, entitled " Ode,^' which must have been written 
when he was little more than a boy, which gave abun- 
dant evidence of his high aspiration and of the earnest- 
ness of his spirit. His admirers were justified in 
predicting from this poem a brilliant future for the 
author, and the result was not disappointing. 

The Biglow Papers are a political satire upon the 
Invasion by the United States of Mexico, the State of 
the Slavery Question, etc. They are written in the 
Yankee dialect verse by one Hosea Biglow, Birdofre- 
dum Sawin, edited with an introduction, notes, glos- 
sary, and copious index, by Homer Wilbur, A. M., 
pastor of the First Church in Jaalam, and (prospec- 
tive) member of many literary, learned, and scientific 



Xii BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. 

societies. These placed Lowell in the front rank of 
humorists. They were the first attempt to use the 
quaint New England dialect in verse, and they are 
probably the best imitations to be found either in 
poetry or in prose. 

They were received with favor, and their keen satire, 
their quaint drollery, their irresistible good humor, 
have held them in popularity for a half century. Po- 
litical opponents enjoyed them hardly less than polit- 
ical friends. The experiences of the Bay State recruit, 
with sly wit, set forth political questions and practices 
in a way to fill one with laughter. There is an under- 
tone of seriousness, especially a hot hatred of slavery 
and all its concomitants, and indeed of all injustice. 
But the form is humorous, and they have been called 
an attempt to laugh down slavery. In the larger sense 
of the word, they are intensely patriotic. They are 
classic in their way, and are the only production in the 
English language worthy to stand by the side of Hudi- 
bras. It is this combination of fun that bubbles over 
and sturdy morality which places them on so high a 
plane both intellectual and ethical. They have held 
their place for fifty years and doubtless will hold it for 
many years to come. 

A second series of these charming papers was called 
out by the Civil War of 1861-5. These had not the 
advantage of newness enjoyed by the first series, never- 
theless they are Avorthy of their name and do not de- 
tract from the quality of the whole. If there is less 
rollicking fun in the second series, there is also more 
poetry. The Civil War was nearer to the poet than the 
Mexican War, and this fact could not other than influ- 
ence his writing even of wit, humor, and satire. 



BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. xiii 

Another masterly piece of humor is the Fable for 
Critics, which is no fable at all, but a rhymed review, 
or at least criticism, of some of the more prominent 
American writers. One after another they pass under 
his scrutiny and receive his criticism or characteriza- 
tion. It is not to be expected that this poem should 
have the balance of the regular review, but on the 
whole its criticisms are just, while his wit is as keen as 
a Damascus blade. It is to be noted that the poet does 
not spare himself, but raps his own knuckles quite as 
hard as any. 

There is Lowell, who's striving Parnassus to climb, 
With a whole bale of isms tied together with rhyme. 

The top of the hill he will ne'er come nigh reaching 

Till he learns the distinction 'twixt singing and preaching. 

The purpose and character of the Fable preclude the 
usual finish of form, so that it has been called clever 
doggerel. But along with its trenchant humor may 
be discovered a manly vigor, with occasional touches 
of the pathos which is rarely lacking in any of Lowell's 
poetry, either humorous or serious, and all joined by a 
good sense that bears the light of day. 

In 1865 Harvard College had a memorial service for 
those of her sons who fell in the Civil War, 'and for 
this was written the Commemoration Ode, whose stately 
measures rise sometimes to sublime heights. Patriotism 
tinges much of his poetry, for love of country and of 
freedom was a passion with him, but in this poem it 
has a freer course than elsewhere. He touches the 

ideal manhood, — 

God's plan 
Axi^ jneasure of a stalwart man. 



xiv BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. 

The concrete example of this manhood is Lincoln 
*^our Martyr-Chief." Then follows a characterization 
of him unequalled certainly in poetry, leading up to 
the climax, — 

The kindly-earnest, brave, foreseeing man, 
Sagacious, patient, dreading praise, not blame, 
New birth of our new soil, the first American. 

The Present Crisis is probably the most quoted of 
his poems. It was written in December, 1844, and 
refers to one of the many crises of slavery. It displays 
the author's noble loyalty to Truth and his withering 
scorn of evasion or temporizing expedients. Later he 
treated similar subjects with humorous form in the 
Biglow papers ; but here he is serious in form as well 
as earnest in thought. Lord Bacon raised the ques- 
tion of *^ jesting Pilate." What is Truth? Lowell 
answers with a clarion ring : 

Truth forever on the scaffold, Wrong forever on the throne, — 
Yet that scaffold sways the future, and, behind the dim un- 
known, 
Standeth God within the shadow, keeping watch above His 
own. 

History is to Lowell a divine revelation, and the crisis 
of which he writes has the solemnity of the Judgment 
Day. 

Once to every man and nation comes the moment to decide 
In the strife of Truth with Falsehood, for the good or evil 
side. 

This leads us to speak of the religious characteristic 
of the author^s poetry. His poems are not religious in 
the same sense as those of Cowper, Possibly they are 



BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. XV 

not evangelical. But they are religious in the finest 
sense of the word, holding to an unshaken belief in 
God's everlasting righteousness, with sweet confidence 
in His overruling providence, with a profound belief 
in the practical piety of considering the poor and un- 
fortunate, and especially with broad sympathy for 
'' seekers after God.'' His ^^ Vision of Sir Launf al " 
is a universal favorite. It tells of the quest of the 
Holy Grail, or the cup which Our Lord blessed in the 
Last Supper. The way the knight treats the beggar 
on his issuing from the castle and the way he treats 
him upon his return from his wanderings present 
a striking contrast. Other poems which may be 
classed as distinctly religious are Parable (two by this 
name) Ambrose, Extreme Unction, and The Cathedral. 
The Death of a Friend's Child may be studied profit- 
ably by every preacher, and After the Burial should 
be mastered by every pastor for the purpose of enter- 
ing into the experiences of others where one so easily 
misunderstands. 

The Cathedral was originally entitled ^^A Day at 
Chartres." The reader can spend with profit and de- 
light not merely one, but many, days in that poem. It 
opens with a discussion of first impressions, then 
describes the poet's overwhelming impression of the 
cathedral. Within he observes a solitary beldam list- 
lessly counting her beads and has at first a scornful 
feeling towards her, which quickly gives place to sym- 
pathy. This leads to the discussion of the various 
Faiths that grope after God, and the teaching is that 
God is nearer than men realize. The ancient forms, 
bare to the refined descendant of the Puritans, have 
their uses. 



xvi BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. 

Be He nowhere else, 
God is in all that liberates and lifts, 
In all that humbles, sweetens, and consoles. 

The cathedral was built with a sense of piety and 
consecration. Each person came bringing his ''vote 
for God/' for such were the stones built into that 
stately structure. From that work of conscience and 
devotion the '' Western Goth '* may learn that 

nothing pays but God, 
Served whether on the smoke-shut battle-field, 
In work obscure done honestly, or vote 
For truth unpopular, or faith maintained 
To ruinous convictions, or good deeds 
Wrought for good's sake, mindless of heaven or hell. 

The poem closes with witnessing to the universal 
presence of God, and leaves the reader in that frame of 
solemn awe as if he had shared the poet's own vision 
and experience in the aisles of that impressive cathe- 
dral. 

One further poem ought to be mentioned for its del- 
icacy of thought and perfectness of finish, and that is 
Auf Wiedersehen. 

Sweet piece of bashful maiden art ! 

The English words had seemed to fain, 
But these— they drew us heart to heart, ' 
Yet held us tenderly apart ; 

She said, '* Auf Wiedersehen!'' 

Gathering together the impressions of this poet, we 
find him fearless in moral courage, with unconquerable 
devotion to truth and scorn of temporizing expedients, 
with passionate love of freedom and hatred of slavery' 
with broad philanthropy and pervading piety. His 
satire js clever, his imagination vivid, his range of 



BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. xvii 

thought wide, his intellectual grasp firm, and his ex- 
pression vigorous. The introductions to the two parts 
of The Vision of Sir Launfal are models of graceful 
and delicate fancy clothed in absolute beauty of ex- 
pression. 

Lowell's duties as minister to England came to an 
end in 1885. The later years of his life, however, were 
well filled with work. His residence was at Elmwood, 
Cambridge, where for many years he had been near 
neighbor to Longfellow. Li 1885 he had buried in 
England his wife. The solitude of his latest years was 
broken by frequent visits to England where he had 
many friends, while his time was also occupied by lec- 
tures and addresses. He prepared his complete works 
for the press, so that the public now have them in the 
form which the author would wish. His friend, Prof. 
Charles Eliot Norton, has since published his life and 
letters, to which the reader is referred for a fuller 
knowledge of this rare man. 

He died at Cambridge, August 12, 1891. He left 
an added dignity to American letters. He not only 
received the highest honors which his alma mater, 
Harvard, could give, but he was decorated by the uni- 
versities of Glasgow, Edinburgh, and Bologna, in addi- 
tion to Oxford and Cambridge above mentioned. To 
him may be applied the words which he wrote to a 
friend, — ' 

The birds are hushed, the poets gone 
Where no harsh critic's lash can reach, 

And still your winged brood sing on 
To all who love our English speech. 

HENRY KETCHAM, 



MELIBCEVS-HIPPONAX. 

THE 

BiaLOW PAPEES 

EDITED 

WITH AN INTKODUCTION AND NOTES 



BY 

HOMER WILBUR, A. M. 

PASTOR OF THE FIRST CHURCH IN JAALAM, AND (PROSPECTIVE) MEMBER OF 
MANY LITERARY, LEARNED AND SCIENTIFIC SOCIETIES 

(Jor which see page v) 



The ploughman's whistle, or the trivial flute, 
Finds more respect than great Apollo's lute. 

Quarles's Emblems, b. ii. e. 8. 

Margaritas, munde porcine, calcasti : en, siliquas accipe. 

Jac. Car, Fil. ad Pub. Leg. § 1. 



I 



NOTE TO TITLE-PAGE. 



It will not have escaped the attentive eye, that I 
have, on the title-page, omitted those honorary ap- 
pendages to the editorial name which not only add 
greatly to the value of every book, but whet and ex- 
acerbate the appetite of the reader. For not only does 
he surmise that an honorary membership of literary and 
scientific societies implies a certain amount of neces- 
sary distinction on the part of the recipient of such 
decorations, but he is willing to trust himself more 
entirely to an author who writes under the fearful re- 
sponsibility of involving the reputation of such bodies 
as the S. Archceol Bahom., or the Acad. Lit. et Scient. 
Kamtschat. I cannot but think that the early editions 
of Shakspeare and Milton would have met with more 
rapid and general acceptance, but for the barrenness of 
their respective title-pages ; and I believe, that, even 
now, a publisher of the works of either of those justly 
distinguished men would find his account in procuring 
their admission to the membership of learned bodies on 
the Continent, — a proceeding no whit more incongruous 
than the reversal of the judgment against Socrates, when 
he was already more than twenty centuries beyond the 
reach of antidotes, and when his memory had acquired 
a deserved respectability. I conceive that it was a feel- 
ing of the importance of this precaution which induced 
Mr. Locke to style himself *' Gent.^' on the title-page 
of his Essay, as who should say to his readers that they 

a 



4 NOTE TO TITLE-PAGE. 

could receive his metaphysics on the honor of a gentle- 
man. 

Nevertheless, finding, that, without descending to a 
smaller size of type than would have been compatible 
with the dignity of the several societies to be named, I 
could not compress my intended list within the limits 
of a single page, and thinking, moreover, that the act 
would carry with it an air of decorous modesty, I have 
chosen to take the reader aside, as it were, into my 
private closet, and there not only exhibit to him the 
diplomas which I already possess, but also to furnish 
him with a prophetic vision of those which I may, with- 
out undue presumption, hope for, as not beyond the 
reach of human ambition and attainment. And I am 
the rather induced to this from the fact, that my name 
has been unaccountably dropped from the last triennial 
catalogue of our beloved Alma Mater. Whether this is 
to be attributed to the difficulty of Latinizing any of 
those honorary adjuncts (with a complete list of which 
I took care to furnish the proper persons nearly a year 
beforehand), or whether it had its origin in any more 
culpable motives, I forbear to consider in this place, 
the matter being in course of painful investigation. 
But, however this may be, I felt the omission the more 
keenly, as I had, in expectation of the new catalogue, 
enriched the library of the Jaalam Atlienseum with the 
old one then in my possession, by which means it has 
come about that my children will be deprived of a 
never-wearying winter-evening's amusement in looking 
out the name of their parent in that distinguished roll. 

Those harmless innocents had at least committed no 

but I forbear, having intrusted my reflections and 
animadversions on this painful topic to the safe-keeping 



NOTE TO TITLE-PAGE. 5 

of my private diary, intended for posthumous publica- 
tion. I state this fact here, in order that certain 
nameless individuals, who are, perhaps, overmuch con- 
gratulating themselves upon my silence, may know that 
a rod is in pickle which the vigorous hand of a justly 
incensed posterity will apply to their memories. 

The careful reader will note, that, in the list which 
I have prepared, I have included the names of several 
Cisatlantic societies to which a place is not commonly 
assigned in processions of this nature. I have ventured 
to do this, not only to encourage native ambition and 
genius, but also because I have never been able to per- 
ceive in what way distance (unless we suppose them at 
the end of a lever) could increase the weight of learned 
bodies. As far as I have been able to extend my re- 
searches among such stuffed specimens as occasionally 
reach America, I have discovered no generic difference 
between the antipodal Fogrnm Japonicum and the F. 
Americmium sufficiently common in our own immediate 
neighborhood. Yet, with a becoming deference to the 
popular belief, that distinctions of this sort are enhanced 
in value by every additional mile they travel, I have in- 
termixed the names of some tolerably distant literary 
and other associations with the rest. 

I add here, also, an advertisement, which, that it 
may be the more readily understood by those persons 
especially interested therein, I have written in that 
curtailed and otherwise maltreated canine Latin, to the 
writing and reading of which they are accustomed. 

Omn^ib. per tot. Orb. Terrar. Catalog. Academ. 

Edd. 

Minim, gent, diplom. ab inclytiss. acad. vest, orans, 



6 NOTE to TITLE-PAGE. 

vir. honorand. operosiss., at sol. ut sciat. quant, glor. 
nom. meum (dipl. fort, concess.) catal. vest. temp, 
futur. affer., ill. subjec, addit. omnib. titul. honorar. 
qu. adh. non tant. opt. quam probab. put. 

*^* Litt. Uncial, distinx, nt Prces. S. Hist. Nat. Jaal, 

HOMER US WILBUR, Mr., Episc. Jaalam. S. T. 
D. 1850, et Yal. 1849, et Neo-Caes. et Brun. et Gulielm. 
1852, et Gnl. et Mar. et Bowd. et Georgiop. et Viridi- 
mont. et Columb. Nov. Ebor. 1853, et Amherst, et 
"Watervill. et S. Jarlatb. Hib. et S. Mar. et S. Joseph, 
et S. And. Scot. 1854, et Nashvill. et Dart. et. Dickins. 
et Concord, et Wash, et Columbian, et Chariest, et Jeff, 
et Dubl. et Oxon. et Cantab, et caet. 1855, P. U. N. C. H. 
et J. U. D. Gott. et Osnab. et Heidelb. 1860, et 
Acad. Bore us. Berolin. Soc. et SS. ER. Lugd. Bat. 
et Patav. et Lond. et Edinb. et Ins. Feejee. et Null. 
Terr, et Pekin. Soc. Hon. et S. H. S. et S. P. A. et A. 
A. S. et S. Humb. Univ. et S. Omn. Rer. Quarund. q. 
Aliar. Promov. Passamaquod. et H. P. C. et I. 0. H. et 
A. A. ^. et II. K. P. et B. K. et Peucin, et Erosoph. 
et Philadelph. et Frat. in Unit, et I. T. et S. Archaeo- 
log. Athen. et Acad. Scient. et Lit. Panorm, et SS. R. 
H. Matrit. et Beeloochist. et Caffrar. et Caribb. et M. 
S. Reg. Paris, et S. Am. Antiserv. Soc. Hon. et P. D. 
Gott. et LL. D. 1852, et D. C. L. et Mus. Doc. Oxon. 
1860, et M. M. S. S. et M. D. 1854, et Med. Fac. Univ. 
Harv. Soc. et S. pro Convers. PoUywog. Soc. Hon. et 
Higgl. Piggl. et LL. B. 1853, et S. pro Christianiz. 
Moschet. Soc, et SS. Ante-Diluv. ubiq. Gent. .Soc. 
Hon. et Civit. Cleric. Jaalam. et S. pro Diffus. Gen- 
eral. Tenebr. Secret. Corr. 



NOTICES OF AN INDEPENDENT PRESS. 



[I HAVE observed, reader, (bene- or male-volent, as it 
may happen,) that it is customary to append to the 
second editions of books, and to the second works of 
authors, short sentences commendatory of the first, 
under the title of Notices of the Press. These, I have 
been given to understand, are procurable at certain estab- 
lished rates, payment being made either in money or ad- 
vertising patronage by the publisher, or by an adequate 
outlay of servility on the part of the author. Con- 
sidering these things with myself, and also that such 
notices are neither intended, nor generally believed, to 
convey any real opinions, being a purely ceremonial ac- 
companiment of literature, and resembling certificates 
to the virtues of various morbiferal panaceas, I con- 
ceived that it would be not only more economical to 
prepare a sufficient number of such myself, but also 
more immediately subservient to the end in view to 
prefix them to this our primary edition rather than 
await the contingency of a second, when they would 
seem to be of small utility. To delay attaching the 
hols until the second attempt at fiying the kite would 
indicate but a slender experience in that useful art. 
Neither has it escaped my notice, nor failed to afford 
me matter of reflection, that, when a circus or a cara- 
van is about to visit Jaalam, the initial step is to send 
forward large and highly ornamented bills of perform- 

7 



8 NOTICES OF AN INDEPENDENT PHESS. 

ance to be hung in the bar-room and the post-office. 
These having been sufficiently gazed at, and beginning 
to lose their attractiveness except for the flies, and, 
truly, the boys also, (in whom I find it impossible to 
repress, even during school hours, certain oral and 
telegraphic correspondences concerning the expected 
show,) upon some fine morning the band enters in a 
gaily-painted wagon, or triumphal chariot, and with 
noisy advertisement, by means of brass, wood, and 
sheepskin, makes the circuit of our startled village streets. 
Then, as the exciting sounds draw nearer and nearer, do 
I desiderate those eyes of Aristarchus, ^' whose looks 
were as a breeching to a boy." Then do I perceive, 
with vain regret of wasted opportunities, the advantage 
of a pancratic or pantechnic education, since he is most 
reverenced by my little subjects who can throw the 
cleanest summerset or walk most securely upon the re- 
volving cask. The story of the Pied Piper becomes 
for the first time credible to me, (albeit confirmed by 
the Hameliners dating their legal instruments from the 
period of his exit,) as I behold how those strains, with- 
out pretence of magical potency, bewitch the pupillary 
legs, nor leave to the pedagogic an entire self-control. 
For these reasons, lest my kingly prerogative should 
suffer diminution, I prorogue my restless commons, 
whom I also follow into the street, chiefly lest some 
mischief may chance befall them. After the manner of 
such a band, I send forward the following notices of 
domestic manufacture, to make brazen proclamation, 
not unconscious of the advantage which will accrue, if 
our little craft, cymlula stitih's, shall seem to leave port 
with a clipping breeze, and to carry, in nautical phrase, 
a bone in her mouth. Nevertheless, I have chosen, as 



NOTICES OF AN INDEPENDENT PRESS. 9 

being more equitable, to prepare some also sufficiently 
objurgatory, that readers of every taste may find a dish 
to their palate. I have modelled them upon actually 
existing specimens, preserved in my own cabinet of 
natural curiosities. One, in particular, I had copied 
with tolerable exactness from a notice of one of my own 
discourses, which, from its superior tone and appear- 
ance of vast experience, I concluded to have been 
written by a man at least three hundred years of age, 
though I recollected no existing instance of such ante- 
diluvian longevity. Nevertheless, I afterward discov- 
ered the author to be a young gentleman preparing for 
the ministry under the direction of one of my brethren 
in a neighboring town, and whom I had once instinc- 
tively corrected in a Latin quantity. But this I have 
been forced to omit, from its too great length. — H. W.] 



From the Universal Littery Universe. 

Full of passages which rivet the attention of the reader. 
. . . Under a rustic garb, sentiments are conveyed which 
should be committed to the memory and engraven on the 
heart of every moral and social being . . . We consider this 
a unique performance . . . We hope to see it soon introduced 
into our common schools . . . Mr. Wilbur has performed his 
duties as editor with excellent taste and judgment . . . This 
is a vein which we hope to see successfully prosecuted . . . 
We hail the appearance of this work as a long stride toward 
the formation of a purely aboriginal, indigenous, nati e and 
American literature. We rejoice to meet with an author 
national enough to break away from the slavish deference, 
too common among us, to English grammar and orthography 
. . . Where all is so good, we are at a loss how to make ex- 
tracts, . . . On the whole, we may call it a volume which 
no library, pretending to entire completeness, should fail to 
place upon its shelves. 



10 NOTICES OF AN INDEPENDENT PRESS. 

From the Higginhottomopolis Snapping-turtle. 

A collection of the merest balderdash and doggerel that it 
was ever our bad fortune to lay eyes on. The author is a vul- 
gar buffoon, and the editor a talkative, tedious old fool. We 
use strong language, but should any of our readers peruse the 
book, (from which calamity Heaven preserve them !) they 
will find reasons for it thick as the leaves of Vallumbrozer, 
or, to use a still more expressive comparison, as the combined 
heads of author and editor. The work is wretchedly got up 
. . . We should like to know how much British gold was 
pocketed by this libeller of our country and her purest 
patriots. 



From the Oldfogrumville Mentor. 

We have not had time to do more than glance through this 
handsomel)" printed volume, but the name of its respectable 
editor, the Rev. Mr. Wilbur, of Jaalam, will afford a suffi- 
cient guaranty for the worth of its contents . . . The paper 
is white, the type clear, and the volume of a convenient and 
attractive size ... In reading this elegantly executed work, 
it has seemed to us tliat a passage or two might have been re- 
trenched with advantage, and that the general style of diction 
was susceptible of a higher polish . . . On the whole, we may 
safely leave the ungrateful task of criticism to the reader. 
We will barely suggest, that in volumes intended, as this is, 
for the illustration of a provincial dialect and turns of expres- 
sion, a dash of humor or satire might be thrown in with ad- 
vantage . . . The work is admirably got up . . . This work 
will form an appropriate ornament to the centre-table. It is 
beautifully printed, on paper of an excellent quality. 



From the Dekay Bulwark, 

We should be wanting in our duty as the conductor of that 
tremendous engine, a public press, as an American, and as a 
man, did we allow such an opportunity as is presented to us 
by "The Biglow Papers" to pass by without entering our 



NOTICES OF AN INDEPENDENT PRESS. n 

earnest protest against such attempts (now, alas ! too com- 
mon) at demoralizing the piibHc sentiment. Under a 
wretched mask of stupid drollery, slavery, war, the social 
glass, and, in short, all the valuable and time-honored insti- 
tutions justly dear to our common humanity and especially 
to republicans, are made the butt of coarse and senseless 
ribaldry by this low-minded scribbler. It is time that the 
respectable and religious portion of our community should be 
aroused to the alarming inroads of foreign Jacobinism, sanscu- 
lottism, and infidelity. It is a fearful proof of the widespread 
nature of this contagion, that these secret stabs at religion 
and virtue are given from under the cloak (credite, posteri!) 
of a clergyman. It is a mournful spectacle indeed to the pa- 
triot and the Christian to see liberality and new ideas (falsely 
so called, — they are as old as Eden) invading the sacred pre- 
cincts of the pulpit . . . On the whole, we consider this vol- 
ume as one of the first shocking results which we predicted 
would spring out of the late French " Revolution " (!) 



From the Bungtown Cojyper and Comprehensive Tocsin (a try- 
weakly family journal) . 

Altogether an admirable work . . . Full of humor, boister- 
ous, but delicate, — of wit withering and scorching, yet com- 
bined with a pathos cool as morning dew, — of satire ponder- 
ous as the mace of Richard, yet keen as the scymitar of Sala- 
din . . . A work full of "mountain mirth," mischievous as 
Puck and lightsome as Ariel . . . We know not whether to 
admire most the genial, fresh, and discursive concinnity of 
the author, or his playful fancy, weird imagination, and com- 
pass of style, at once both objective and subjective . . . We 
might indulge in some criticisms, but, were the author other 
than he is, he would be a different being. As it is, he has a 
wonderful pose, which flits from flower to flower, and bears 
the reader irresistibly along on its eagle pinions (like Gany- 
mede) to the " highest heaven of invention." . . . We love a 
book so purely objective . . . Many of his pictures of natural 
scenery have an extraordinary subjective clearness and fidel- 



12 NOTICES OF AN INDEPENDENT PRESS. ' 

ity ... In fine, we consider this as one of the most extraor- 
dinary volumes of this or any age. We know of no English 
author who could have written it. It is a work to which the 
proud genius of our country, standing with one foot on the 
Aroostook and the other on the Rio Grande, and holding up 
the star-spangled banner amid the wreck of matter and the 
crush of worlds, may point with bewildering scorn of the 
punier efforts of enslaved Europe . . . We hope soon to en- 
counter our author among those higher walks of literature in 
which he is evidently capable of achieving enduring fame. 
Already we should be inclined to assign him a high position 
in the bright galaxy of our American bards. 



From the Saltriver Pilot and Flag of Freedom. 

A volunie of bad grammar and worse taste . . . While the 
pieces here collected were confined to their appropriate 
sphere in the corners of obscure newspapers, we considered 
them wholly beneath contempt, but, as the author has chosen 
to come forward in this public manner, he must expect the 
lash he so richly merits . . . Contemptible slanders . . . 
Vilest Billingsgate . . . Has raked all the gutters of our lan- 
guage . . . The most pure, upright, and consistent politicians 
not safe from his malignant venom . . . General Gushing 
comes in for a share of his vile calumnies . . . the Reverend 
Homer Wilbur is a disgrace to his cloth . . . 



From the World-Harmonic- ^olian- Attachment. 

Speech is silver : silence is golden. No utterance more 
Orphic than this. While, therefore, as highest author, we 
reverence him whose works continue heroically unwritten, 
we have also our hopeful word for those who with pen (from 
wing of goose loud-cackling, or seraph God-commissioned) 
record the thing that is revealed . . . Under mask of 
quaintest irony, we detect here the deep, storm-tost (nigh 
shipwrecked) soul, thunder-scarred, semiarticulate, but ever 
climbing hopefully toward the peaceful sumipits of ^n In^ 



NOTICES OF AN INDEPENDENT PRESS. 13 

finite Sorrow . . . Yes, thou poor, forlorn Hosea, with He- 
brew fire-flaming soul in thee, for thee also this life of ours 
has not been without its aspects of heavenliest pity and laugh- 
ingest mirth. Conceivable enougli ! Through coarse Ther- 
sites-cloak, we have revelation of the heart, wild-glowing, 
world-clasping, that is in him. Bravely he grapples with the 
life-problem as it presents itself to him, uncombed, shaggy, 
careless of the " nicer proprieties," inexpert of " elegant dic- 
tion," yet with voice audible enough to whoso hath ears, up 
there on the gravelly side-hills, or down on the splashy, India- 
rubber-like salt-marshes «of native Jaalam. To this soul 
also the Necessity of Creating somewliat has unveiled its aw- 
ful front. If not CEdipuses and Electras and Alcestises, then 
in God's name Birdofredum Sawins ! These also shall get 
born into the world, and filch (if so need) a Zingali subsist- 
ence therein, these lank, omnivorous Yankees of his. He 
shall paint the Seen, since the Unseen will not sit to him. 
Yet in him also are Nibelungen-lays, and Iliads, and Ulysses- 
wanderings, and Divine Comedies, — if only once he could 
come at them ! Therein lies much, nay all ; for what truly 
is this which we name All, but that which we do not possess ? 
. . . Glimpses also are given us of an old father Ezekiel, not 
without paternal pride, as is the wont of such, A brown, 
parchment-hided old man of the geoponic or bucolic species, 
gray-eyed, we fancy, queued perhaps, with much weather- 
cunning and plentiful September-gale memories, bidding fair 
in good time to become the Oldest Inhabitant. After such 
hasty apparition, he vanishes and is seen no more ... Of 
"Rev. Homer Wilbur, A. M., Pastor of the First Church in 
Jaalam," we have small care to speak here. Spare touch in 
him of his Melesigenes namesake, save haply, the — blindness ! 
A tolerably caliginose, nephelegeretous elderly gentleman, 
with infinite faculty of sermonizing, muscularized by long 
practice, and excellent digestive apparatus, and, for the rest, 
well-meaning enough, and with small private illuminations 
(somewhat tallowy, it is to be feared) of his own. To him, 
there, " Pastor of the First Church in Jaalam," our Hosea 
presents himself as a quiet inexplicable Sphinx-riddle. A 
rich poverty of Latin and Greek, — so far is clear enough, even 



14 NOTICES OF AN INDEPENDENT PRESS. 

to eyes peering myopic through horn-lensed editorial specta- 
cles,— but naught farther? O pur-blind, well-meaning, alto- 
gether fuscous Melesigenes-Wilbur, there are things in him 
incommunicable by stroke of birch ! Did it ever enter that 
old bewildered head of thine that there was the Possibility of 
the Infinite in him ? To thee, quite wingless (and even feath- 
erless) biped, has not so much even as a dream of wings ever 
come? "Talented young parishioner ' ? Among the Arts 
whereof thou art Magister, does that of seeing happen to be 
one ? Unhappy Artium Magister ! Somehow a Nemean lion, 
fulvous, torrid-eyed, dry-nursed in broad-howling sand-wil- 
dernesses of a sufficiently rare spirit-Libya (it may be supposed) 
has got whelped among the sheep. Already he stands wild- 
glaring, with feet clutching the ground as with oak-roots, 
gathering for a Remus-spring over the walls of thy little fold. 
In Heaven's name, go not near him with that fly-bite crook 
of thine ! In good time, thou painful preacher, thou wilt go 
to the appointed place of departed Artillery -Election Sermons, 
Right-Hands of Fellowship, and Results of Councils, gathered 
to thy spiritual fathers with much Latin of the Epitaphial sort ; 
thou, too, Shalt have thy reward ; but on him the Eumenides 
have looked, not Xantippes of the pit, snake-tressed, finger- 
threatening, but radiantly calm as on antique gems ; for him 
paws impatient the winged courser of the gods, champing un- 
w^elcome bit ; him the starry deeps, the empyrean glooms, 
and far-flashing splendors await. 



From the Onion Grove Phoenix. 

A talented young townsman of ours, recently returned 
from a Continental tour, and who is already favorably known 
to our readers by his sprightly letters from abroad which 
have graced our columns, called at our office yesterday. We 
learn from him, that, having enjoyed the distinguished privi- 
lege, w^hile in Germany, of an introduction to the celebrated 
Von Humbug, he took the opportunity to present that emi- 
nent man with a copy of the " Biglow Papers."" The next 
morning he received the following note, which he has kindly 



NOTICES OF AN INDEPENDENT PRESS. 15 

furnished us for publication. We prefer to print verbatim^ 
knowing that our readers will readily forgive the few errors 
into which the illustrious writer has fallen, through ignorance 
of our language. 

" High- Worthy Mister ! 

" I shall also now especially happy starve, because I have 
more or less a work of one of those aboriginal Red-Men seen 
in which have I so deaf an interest ever taken fuUworthy on 
the self shelf with our Gootsched to be upset. 

" Pardon my in the English-speech unpractice ! 

"Von Humbug." 

He also sent with the above note a copy of his famous work 
on " Cosmetics," to be presented to Mr. Biglow ; but this was 
taken from our friend by the English customhouse officers, 
probably through a petty national spite. No doubt, it has by 
this time found its way into the British Museum. We trust 
this outrage will be exposed in all our American papers. We 
shall do our best to bring it to the notice of the State Depart- 
ment. Our numerous readers will share in the pleasure we 
experience at seeing our young and vigorous national litera- 
ture thus encouragingly patted on the head by this venerable 
and world-renowned German. We love to see these reciproca- 
tions of good-feeling between the different branches of the 
great Anglo-Saxon race. 

[The following genuine "notice'' having met my 
eye, I gladly insert a portion of it here, the more espe- 
cially as it contains a portion of one of Mr. Biglow's 
poems not elsewhere printed. — H. W.] 



From the Jaalam Independent Blunderbuss. 

. . . But, while we lament to see our young townsman thus 
mingling in the heated contests of party politics, we think 
we detect in him the presence of talents which, if properly 
directed, might give an innocent pleasure to many. As a 



16 NOTICES OF AN INDEPENDENT PRESS. 

proof that he is competent to the production of other kinds of 
poetry, we copy for our readers a short fragment of a pastoral 
by him, the manuscript of which was loaned us by a friend. 
The title of it is " The Courtin'." 

Zekle crep' up, quite unbeknown, 

An' peeked in thru the winder, 
An' there sot Huldy all alone, 

'ith no one nigh to hender. 

Agin' the chimbly crooknecks hung. 

An' in amongst 'em rusted 
The old queen's arm thet gran'ther Young 

Fetched back frum Concord busted. 

The wannut logs shot sparkles out 

Toward the pootiest, bless her ! 
An' leetle fires danced all about 

The chiny pn the dresser. 

The very room, coz she wuz in, 
Looked warm frum floor to ceilin', 

An' she looked full ez rosy agin 
Ez th' apples she wuz peelin'. 

She heerd a foot an' knowed it, tu, 

Araspin" on the scraper, — 
All ways to once her feelins flew 

Like sparks in burnt-up paper. 

He kin' o' I'itered on the mat, 

Some doubtfle o' the seekle ; 
His heart kep' goin' pitypat, 

But hern went pity Zekle. 



Satis mnltis sese emptores futnros libri professis, 
Georgius Nichols, Cantabrigiensis, opus emittet de 
parte gravi sed adhuc neglecta historiae naturalis, cum 
titulo sequent!, videlicet : 

Conatus ad Delineationem naturalem nonniMl per- 
fectiorem Scarabcei Bomhilatoris, vulgo dicti Humbug, 
ab HoMERO Wilbur, Artium Magistro, Societatis his- 
torico-naturalis Jaalamensis Preside, (Secretario, So- 
cioque (eheu !) singulo,) multarumque aliarum Societa- 
tum eruditarum (sive ineruditarum) tarn domesticarum 
quam transmarinarum Socio — forsitan futuro. 

PROEMIUM. 

Lectori Benevolo S. 

Toga scliolastica nondum deposita, quum systemata 
varia entomologica, a yiris ejus scientiae cultoribus stu- 
diosissimis summa diligentia aedificata, penitus inda- 
gassem, non fuit quin luctuose omnibus in iis, quamvis 
aliter laude dignissimis, hiatum magni momenti per- 
ciperem. Tunc, nescio quo motu superiore impulsus, 
aut qua captus dulcedine operis, ad eum implendum 
(Curtius alter) me solemniter devovi. Nee ab isto 
labore, daqiovtw^ imposito, abstinui antequam tractatu- 
lum sufficienter inconcinnum lingua vernacula per- 
feceram. Inde, juveniliter tumefactus, et barathro 
ineptiae twv I^c^XcotzioXwv (necnon '^ Publici Legentis ") 
nusquam explorato, me composuisse quod quasi pla- 
centas praef ervidas (ut sic dicam) homines ingurgitarent 
2 17 



18 PROEMIUM. 

credidi. Sed, qunm huic et alii bibliopolae MSS. mea 
submisissem et nihil solidius responsione valde negativa 
in Musseum meum retnlissem, horror ingens atque 
misericordia, ob crassitudinem Lambertianam in cere- 
bris homunculorum istius muneris coelesti quadam ira 
infixam, me invasere. Extemplo mei solius impensis 
librnm edere decrevi, nihil omnino dubitans quin 
^'Mundiis Scientificus " (ut aiunt) crumenam meam 
ampliter repleret. Nullam, attamen, ex agro illo meo 
parvulo segetem demessui, prseter gandium vacuum bene 
de Republica merendi. Iste panis mens pretiosus super 
aquas literarias fseculentas praefidenter jactus, quasi 
Harpy iarumquarundam (scilicet bibliopolarum istorum 
facinorosorum supradictorum) tactu rancidus, intra 
perpaucos dies mihi domum rediit. Et, quum ipse 
tali victu ali non tolerarem, primum in mentem venit 
pistori (typographo nempe) nihilominus solvendum 
esse. Animum non idcirco demisi, imo geque ac pueri 
naviculas suas penes se lino retinent (eo ut e recto cursu 
delapsas ad ripam retrahant), sic ego Argo meam char- 
taceam fluctibus laborantem a quaesitu velleris aurei, 
ipse potius tonsus pelleque exutus, mente solida revo- 
cavi. Metaphoram ut mutem, hoomarangam meam a 
scopo aberrantem retraxi, dum majore vi, occasione 
ministrante, adversus Fortunam intorquerem. Ast 
mihi, [talia volventi, et, sicut Saturnus ille naido/Sopo?, 
liberos intellectus mei depascere fidenti, casus mise- 
randus, nee antea inauditus, supervenit. Xam, ut 
ferunt Scythas pietatis causa et parsimonise, parentes 
suos mortuos devorasse, sic filius hie mens primogenitus, 
Scythis ipsis minus mansuetus, patrem vivum totum et 
calcitrantem exsorbere enixus est. Nee tamen hac de 
causa sobolem meam esurientem exheredavi. Sed 



PROEMIUM. 19 

famem istam pro valido testimonio virilitatis roborisque 
potius habui, cibumque ad earn satiandam, salvapaterna 
mea carne, petii. Et quia bilem illam scaturientem ad 
ses etiam concoquendum idoneam esse estimabam, unde 
aes alienum, ut minoris pretii, haberem, circumspexi. 
Kebus ita se habentibiis, ab avunculo meo Johanne Doo- 
little, Armigero, impetravi ut pecunias necessarias 
suppeditaret, ne opus esset mihi universitatem relin- 
quendi antequam ad gradum primum in artibus per- 
venissem. Tunc ego, salvum facere patronum meum 
munificum maxime cupiens, omnes libros primag edi- 
tionis operis mei non venditos una cum privilegio in 
omne aevum ejusdem imprimendi et edendi avunculo 
meo dicto pigneravi. Ex illo die, atro lapide notando, 
curae vociferantes familiae singulis annis crescentis eo 
usque insultabant ut nunquam tarn carum pignus e 
vinculis istis aheneis solvere possem. 

Avunculo vero nuper mortuo, quum inter alios con- 
sanguineos testamenti ejus lectionem audiendi causa 
advenissem, erectisauribus verba taliasequentia accepi : 
— '' Quoniam persuasum habeo meum dilectum nepo- 
tem Homerum, longa et intima rerum angustarum domi 
experientia, aptissimum esse qui divitias tueatur, bene- 
ficenterque ac prudenter iis divinis creditis utatur, — 
ergo, motus hisce cogitationibus, exque amore meo in 
ilium magno, do, legoque nepoti caro meo supranomi- 
nato omnes singularesque istas possessiones nee ponder- 
abiles nee computabiles meas qua3 sequuntur, scilicet : 
quingentos libros quos mihi pigneravi t dictus Homerus, 
anno lucis 1792, cum privilegio edendi et repetendi 
opus istud ^scientiflcum' (quod dicunt) suum, si sic 
elegerit. Tamen D. 0. M. precor oculos Homeri nepo- 
tis mei ita aperiat eumque moveat, ut libros istos in 



20 PROEMIUM. 

bibliotheca unius e plurimis castellis suis Hispaniensibus 
tuto abscondat." 

His verbis (vix credibilibus) auditis, cor meum in 
pectore exsultavit. Deiiide, quoniam tractatus Anglice 
scriptus spem auctoris fefellerat, quippe quum studium 
Historiae Naturalis in Republica nostra inter factionis 
strepitum languescat, Latine versum edere statai, et eo 
potius quia nescio quomodo disciplina academica et duo 
diplomata proficiant, nisi quod peritos linguarum om- 
nino mortuarum (et damnandarum, ut dicebat iste 
Tzavoopyofs Gulielmus Cobbett) nos faciant. 

Et mihi adhuc superstes est tota ilia editio prima, 
quam quasi crepitaculum per quod dentes caninos den- 
tibam retineo. 



OPERIS SPECIMEN. 

{Ad exemplum Johannis Physiophili speciminis Monachologice. 

12. S. B. Militaris, Wilbur. Carnifex, Jablonsk. Profanusy 

Despont. 

[Male hancce speciem C?/cZopemFabricius vocat, ut qui sin- 
gulo oculo ad quod sui interest distinguitur. Melius vero 
Isaacus Outis nullum inter S. milit. S. que Belzebul (Fabric. 
152) discrimen esse defendit.] 

Habitat civitat. Americ. austral. 

Aureis lineis splendidus ; plerumque tamen sordidus, utpote 
lanienas valde frequentans, foetore sanguinis allectus. Amat 
quoque insuper septa apricari, neque inde, nisi maxima co- 
natione, detruditur. Candidatus ergo populariter vocatus. 
Caput cristam quasi pennarum ostendit. Pro cibo vaccam 
publicam callide mulget ; abdomen enorme ; facultas suctus 
baud facile estimanda. Otiosus, fatuus ; ferox nibilominus, 
semperque dimicare paratus. Tortuose repit. 

Capite saepe maxima cum cura dissecto, ne illud rudimeu- 



PROEMIUM. 21 

turn etiam cerebri commune omnibus prope insectis detegere 
poteram. 

Unam de hoc S. milit. rem singularem notavi ; nam S. 
Guineens. (Fabric. 143) servos facit, et idcirco a multis 
summa in reverentia habitus, quasi scintillas rationis paene 
humanae demonstrans. 

24 S. B. Criticus, Wilbur. Zoilus, Fabric. Pygmoeus, 

Carlsen. 

[Stultissime Johannes Stryx cum S. punctate (Fabric. 64- 
109) confundit. Specimina quamplurima scrutationi micro- 
scopicae subjeci, nunquam tamen unum uUa indicia puncti 
cujusvis prorsus ostendentem inveni.] 

Praecipue formidolosus, insectatusque, in proxima rima 
anonyma sese abscondit, we, we, creberrime stridens. Inep- 
tus, segnipes. 

Habitat ubique gentium ; in sicco ; nidum suum terebra- 
tione indefessa aedificans. Cibus. Libros depascit ; siccos 
praecipue seligens, et forte succidum. 



INTRODUCTION. 

When, more than three years ago, my talented 
young parishioner, Mr. Biglow, came to me and sub- 
mitted to my animadversions the first of his poems 
which he intended to commit to the more hazardous 
trial of a city newspaper, it never so much as entered 
my imagination to conceive that his productions would 
ever be gathered into a fair volume, and ushered into 
the august presence of the reading public by myself. 
So little are we short-sighted mortals able to predict 
the event ! I confess that there is to me a quite new 
satisfaction in being associated (though only as sleep- 
ing partner) in a book which can stand by itself in an 
independent unity on the shelves of libraries. For 
there is always this drawback from the pleasure of 
printing a sermon, that, whereas the queasy stomach 
of this generation will not bear a discourse long enough 
to make a separate volume, those religious and godly- 
minded children (those Samuels, if I may call them 
so) of the brain must at first lie buried in an undis- 
tinguished heap, and then get such resurrection as is 
vouchsafed to them, mummy-wrapt with a score of 
others in a cheap binding, with no other mark of dis- 
tinction than the word '^ Miscellafieous " printed upon 
the back. Far be it from me to claim any credit for 
the quite unexpected popularity which I am pleased 
to find these bucolic strains have attained unto. If I 

know myself, I am measurably free from the itch of 

23 



M INTRODUCTION. . 

vanity ; yet I may be allowed to say that I was not 
backward to recognize in them a certain wild, puckery, 
acidulous (sometimes even verging toward that point 
which, in our rustic phrase, is termed shut-eye) flavor, 
not wholly unpleasing, nor unwholesome, to palates 
cloyed with the sugariness of tamed and cultivated 
fruit. It may be, also, that some touches of my own, 
here and there, may have led to their wider acceptance, 
albeit solely from my larger experience of literature and 
authorship.* 

I was, at first, inclined to discourage Mr. Biglow's 
attempts, as knowing that the desire to poetize is one 
of the diseases naturally incident to adolescence, which, 
if the fitting remedies be not at once and with a bold 
hand applied, may become chronic, and render one, 
who might else have become in due time an ornament 
of the social circle, a painful object even to nearest 
friends and relatives. But thinking, on a further ex- 
perience, that there was a germ of promise in him 
which required only culture and the pulling up of weeds 
from around it, I thought it best to set before him the 
acknowledged examples of English compositions in 
verse, and leave the rest to natural emulation. With 
this view, I accordingly lent him some volumes of Pope 
and Goldsmith, to the assiduous study of which he 
promised to devote his evenings. Not long afterward, 
he brought me some verses written upon that model, 

* The reader curious in such matters may refer (if he can 
find them) to *' A Sermon Preached on the Anniversary of 
the Dark Day," "An Artillery Election Sermon," " A Dis- 
course on the Late Eclipse," *' Dorcas, a Funeral Sermon on 
the Death of Madam Submit Tidd, Relict of the late Experi- 
ence Tidd, Esq.," &c., &c. 



INTRODUCTION. 25 

a specimen of which I subjoin, having changed some 
phrases of less elegancy, and a few rhymes objection- 
able to the cultivated ear. The poem consisted of 
childish reminiscences, and the sketches which follow 
will not seem destitute of truth to those whose fortu- 
nate education began in a country village. And, first, 
let us hang up his charcoal portrait of the school- 
dame. 

*' Propt on the marsh, a dweUing now, I see 
The humble schoolhouse of my A, B, C, 
Where well-drilled urchins, each behind his tire, 
Waited in ranks the wished command to fire, 
Then all together, when the signal came, 
Discharged their a-b ahs against the dame, 
Who, 'mid the volleyed learning, firm and calm, 
Patted the furloughed ferule on her palm, 
And, to our wonder, could detect at once 
Who flashed the pan, and who was downright dunce. 
There young Devotion learned to climb with ease 
The gnarly limbs of Scripture family-trees, 
And he was most commended and admired 
Who soonest to the topmost twig perspired ; 
Each name was called as many various ways 
As pleased the reader's ear on different days. 
So that the weather, or the ferule's stings. 
Colds in the head, or fifty other things, 
Transformed the helpless Hebrew thrice a week 
To guttural Pequot or resounding Greek, 
The vibrant accent skipping here and there, 
Just as it pleased invention or despair ; 
No controversial Hebraist was the Dame ; 
With or without the points pleased her the same ; 
If any tyro found a name too tough, 
And looked at her, pride furnished skill enough ; 
She nerved her larynx for the desperate thing, 
And cleared the five-barred syllables at a spring. 



26 INTRODUCTION. 

Ah, dear old times 1 there once it was my hap, 
Perched on a stool, to wear the long-eared cap ; 
From books degraded, there I sat at ease, 
A drone, the envy of compulsory bees." 

I add only one further extract, which will possess a 
melancholy interest to all such as have endeavored to 
gleam the materials of Revolutionary history from the 
lips of aged persons, who took a part in the actual 
making of it, and, finding the manufacture profitable, 
continued the supply in an adequate proportion to the 
demand. 

" Old Joe is gone, who saw" hot Percy goad 
His slow artillery up the Concord road, 
A tale which grew in wonder, year by year, 
As, every time he told it, Joe drew near 
To the main fight, till, faded and grown gray, 
The original scene to bolder tints gave way ; 
Then Joe had heard the foe's scared double-quick 
Beat on stove drum with one uncaptured stick. 
And, ere death came the lengthening tale to lop, 
Himself had fired, and seen a red-coat drop ; 
Had Joe lived long enough, that scrambling fight 
Had squared more nearly to his sense of right, 
And vanquished Percy, to complete the tale. 
Had hammered stone for life in Concord jail." 

I do not know that the foregoing extracts ought not 
to be called my own rather than Mr. Biglow's, as indeed, 
he maintained stoutly that my file had left nothing of 
his in them. I should not, perhaps, have felt entitled to 
take so great liberties with them, had I not more than 
suspected an hereditary vein of poetry in myself, a very 
near ancestor having written a Latin poem in the Har- 
vard Gratulatio on the accession of George the Third. 



INTRODUCTION. 27 

Suffice it to say, that, whether not satisfied with such 
limited approbation as I could conscientiously bestow, 
or from a sense of natural inaptitude, I know not, cer- 
tain it is that my young friend could never be induced 
to any further essays in this kind. He affirmed that 
it was to him like writing in a foreign tongue, — that 
Mr. Pope's versification was like the regular ticking of 
one of Willard's clocks, in which one could fancy, after 
long listening, a certain kind of rhythm or tune, but 
which yet was only a poverty-stricken tick, tick, after 
all, — and that he had never seen a sweet-water on a 
trellis growing so fairly, or in forms so pleasing to his 
eye, as a fox-grape over a scrub-oak in a swamp. He 
added I know not what, to the effect that the sweet- 
water would only be the more disfigured by having its 
leaves starched and ironed out, and that Pegasus (so 
he called him) hardly looked right with his mane and 
tail in curl-papers. These and other such opinions I 
did not long strive to eradicate, attributing them rather 
to a defective education and senses untuned by too long 
familiarity with purely natural objects, than to a per- 
verted moral sense. I was the more inclined to this 
leniency since sufficient evidence was not to seek, that 
his verses, as wanting as they certainly were in classic 
polish and point, had somehow taken hold of the public 
ear in a surprising manner. So, only setting him right 
as to the quantity of the proper name Pegasus, I left 
him to follow the bent of his natural genius. 

There are two things upon which it would seem fit- 
ting to dilate somewhat more largely in this place, — 
the Yankee character and the Yankee dialect. And, 
first, of the Yankee character, which has wanted neither 
open maligners, nor even more dangerous enemies in 



28 INTRODUCTION. 

the persons of those unskilful painters who have given 
to it that hardness, angularity, and want of proper per- 
spective, which, in truth, belonged, not to their sub- 
ject, but to their own niggard and unskilful pencil. 

New England was not so much the colony of a mother 
country, as a Hagar driven forth into the wilderness. 
The little self-exiled band which came hither in 1620 
came, not to seek gold, but to found a democracy. 
They came that they might have the privilege to work 
and pray, to sit upon hard benches and listen to pain- 
ful preachers as long as they would, yea, even unto 
thirty- seventhly, if the spirit so willed it. And surely, 
it the Greek might boast his Thermopylae, where three 
hundred men fell in resisting the Persian, we may well 
be proud of our Plymouth Rock, where a handful of 
men, women, and children not merely faced, but van- 
quished, winter, famine, the wilderness, and the yet 
more invincible storge that drew them back to the green 
island far away. These found no lotus growing upon 
the surly shore, the taste of which could make them 
forget their little native Ithaca ; nor were they so 
wanting to themselves in faith as to burn their ship, 
but could see the fair west wind belly the homeward 
sail, and then turn unrepining to grapple with the 
terrible Unknown. 

As Want was the prime foe these hardy exodists had 
to fortress themselves against, so it is little wonder if 
that traditional feud is long in wearing out of the stock. 
The wounds of the old warfare were long ahealing, and 
an east wind of hard times puts a new ache in every one 
of them. Thrift was the first lesson in their horn-book, 
pointed out, letter after letter, by the lean finger of the 
hard schoolmaster, Necessity. Neither were those 



INTRODUCTION. 29 

plump, rosy-gilled Englishmen that came hither, but a 
hard-faced, atrabilious, earnest-eyed race, stiff from 
long wrestling with the Lord in prayer, and who had 
taught Satan to dread the new Puritan hug. Add two 
hundred years^ influence of soil, climate, and exposure, 
with its necessary result of idiosyncrasies, and we have 
the present Yankee, full of expedients, half master of 
all trades, inventive in all but the beautiful, full of 
shifts, not yet capable of comfort, armed at all points 
against the old enemy Hunger, longanimous, good at 
patching, not so careful for what is best as for what 
will do, with a clasp to his purse and a button to his 
pocket, not skilled to build against Time, as in old 
countries, but against sore-pressing Need, accustomed 
to move the world with no ttoD (Tr<h but his own two feet, 
and no lever but his own long forecast. A strange hy- 
brid, indeed, did circumstances beget, here in the New 
World, upon the old Puritan stock, and the earth never 
before saw such mystic-practicalism, such niggard-gen- 
iality, such calculating-fanaticism, such cast-iron-enthu- 
siasm, such unwilling-humor, such close-fisted-gener- 
osity. This new Grmculus esitriens will make a living 
out of any thing. He will invent new trades as well as 
tools. His brain is his capital, and he will get educa- 
tion at all risks. Put him on Juan Fernandez, and he 
would make a spelling-book first, and a salt-pan after- 
ward. In cmlum jusseris, iMf, — or the other way 
either, — it is all one, so any thing is to be got by it. 
Yet, after all, thin, speculative Jonathan is more like 
the Englishman of two centuries ago than John Bull 
himself is. He has lost somewhat in solidity, has be- 
come fluent and adaptable, but more of the original 
groundwork of character remains. He feels more 



30 INTRODUCTION. 

at home with Falke Greville, Herbert of Cherbury, 
Quarles, George Herbert, and Browne, than with his 
modern English cousins. He is nearer than John, by 
at least a hundred years, to Naseby, Marston Moor, 
Worcester, and the time when, if ever, there were true 
Englishmen. John Bull has suffered the idea of the 
Invisible to be very much fattened out of him. Jona- 
than is conscious still that he lives in the world of the 
Unseen as well as of the Seen. To move John, you 
must make your fulcrum of solid beef and pudding ; an 
abstract idea will do for Jonathan. 

*^* TO THE INDULGENT READEE. 

My friend, the Eeverend Mr. Wilbur, having been 
seized with a dangerous fit of illness, before this In- 
troduction had passed through the press, and being 
incapacitated for all literary exertion, sent to me his 
notes, memoranda, &c., and requested me to fashion 
them into some shape more fitting for the general eye. 
This, owing to the fragmentary and disjointed state of 
his manuscripts, I have felt wholly unable to do ; yet, 
being unwilling that the reader should be deprived of 
such parts of his lucubrations as seemed more finished, 
and not well discerning how to segregate these from 
the rest, I have concluded to send them all to the press 
precisely as they are. 

Columbus Nye, Pastor of a Church in Bungtoivn 

Corner, 

It remains to speak of the Yankee dialect. And, 
first, it may be premised, in a general way, that any 



INTRODUCTION. 31 

one much read in the writings of the early colonists 
need not be told that the far greater share of the words 
and phrases now esteemed peculiar to New England, and 
local there, were brought from the mother country. A 
person familiar with the dialect of certain portions of 
Massachusetts will not fail to recognize, in ordinary dis- 
course, many words now noted in English vocabularies 
as archaic, the greater part of which were in common use 
about the time of the King James translation of the 
Bible. Shakspeare stands less in need of a glossary to 
most New Englanders than to many a native of the 
Old Country. The peculiarities of our speech, how- 
ever, are rapidly wearing out. As there is no country 
where reading is so universal and newspapers are so 
multitudinous, so no phrase remains long local, but is 
transplanted in the mail bags to every remotest corner 
of the land. Consequently our dialect approaches 
nearer to uniformity than that of any other nation. 

The English have complained of us for coining new 
words. Many of those so stigmatized were old ones 
by them forgotten, and all make now an unquestioned 
part of the currency, wherever English is spoken. 
Undoubtedly, we have a right to make new words, as 
they are needed by the fresh aspects under which life 
presents itself here in the New World ; and, indeed, 
wherever a language is alive, it grows. It might be 
questioned whether we could not establish a stronger 
title to the ownership of the English tongue than the 
mother-islanders themselves. Here, past all question, 
is to be its great home and centre. And not only is it 
already spoken here by greater numbers, but with a 
far higher popular average of correctness, than in 
Britain, The great writers of it, too, we might claim 



32 INTRODUCTION. 

as ours, were ownership to be settled by the number of 
readers and lovers. 

As regards the provincialisms to be met with in this 
volume, I may say that the reader will not find one 
which is not (as I believe) either native or imported 
with the early settlers, nor one which I have not, with 
my own ears, heard in familiar use. In the metrical 
portion of the book, I have endeavored to adapt the 
spelling as nearly as possible to the ordinary mode of 
pronunciation. Let the reader who deems me over- 
particular remember this caution of Martial : — 

" Quern recitas, mens est, O Fidentine libellus ; 
Sed male cum recitas, incipit esse tuus.'' 

A few further explanatory remarks will not be im- 
pertinent. 

I shall barely lay down a few general rules for the 
reader's guidance. 

1. The genuine Yankee never gives the rough sound 
to the r when he can help it, and often displays con- 
siderable ingenuity in avoiding it even before a vowel. 

2. He seldom sounds the final g, a piece of self-denial, 
if we consider his partiality for nasals. The same of 
the final d, as ha7i' and stan* for haiid and sta7id. 

3. The h in such words as tuhiUy wlien, where, he 
omits altogether. 

4. In regard to a^ he shows some inconsistency, some- 
times giving a close and obscure sound, as liev for have, 
hendy for handy, ez for as, thet for that, and again 
giving it the broad sound it has in father, as hdnsome 
for handsome. 

5. To the sound ou he prefixes an e (hard to ex- 
emplify otherwise than orally). 



INTRODUCTION. 33 

The following passage in Shakspeare he would recite 
thus : — 

" Neow is the winta uv eour discontent 
Med glorious summa by this sun o' Yock, 
An' all the cleouds thet leowered upon eour heouse 
In the deep buzzum o' the oshin buried ; 
Neow air eour breows beound 'ith victorious wreaths ; 
Eour breused arras hung up fer monimunce ; 
Eour starn alarums changed to merry meetins, 
Eour dreffle marches to delightful measures. 
Grim-visaged war heth smeuthed his wrinkled front, 
An' neow, instid o' mountin' barebid steeds 
To fright the souls o' ferfle edverseries, 
He capers nimly in a ladj^'s chamber, 
To the lascivious pleasin' uv a loot." 

6. Aio, in such words as daughter and slaughter, he 
pronounces a?i. 

7. To the dish thus seasoned add a drawl ad lilitum. 
[Mr. Wibur's notes here become entirely fragmen- 
tary.— C. N.] 

a. Unable to procure a likeness of Mr. Biglow, I 
thought the curious reader might be gratified with a 
sight of the editorial effigies. And here a choice be- 
tween two was offered, — the one a profile (entirely 
black) cut by Doyle, the other a portrait painted by a 
native artist of much promise. The first of these 
seemed wanting in expression, and in the second a 
slight obliquity of the visual organs has been height- 
ened (perhaps from an over-desire of force on the part 
of the artist) into too close an approach to actual 
strahismus. This slight divergence in my optical 
apparatus from the ordinary model — however I may 
have been taught to regard it in the light of a mercy 
3 



34 INTRODUCTION. 

rather than a cross, since it enabled me to give as much 
of directness and personal application to my discourses 
as met the wants of my congregation, without risk of 
offending any by being supposed to have him or her in 
my eye (as the saying is) — seemed yet to Mrs. Wilbur 
a sufficient objection to the engraving of the aforesaid 
painting. We read of many who either absolutely 
refused to allow the copying of their features, as espe- 
cially did Plotinus and Agesilaus among the ancients, 
not to mention the more modern instances of Scioppius 
Palaeottus, Pinellus, Velserus, Gataker, and others, or 
were indifferent thereto, as Cromwell. 

/?. Yet was Caesar desirous of concealing his bald- 
ness. Per contray my Lord Protector's carefulness in 
the matter of his wart might be cited. Men generally 
more desirous of being improved in their portraits than 
characters. Shall probably find very unflattered like- 
ness of ourselves in Recording Angel's gallery. 



y. Whether any of our national peculiarities may be 
traced to our use of stoves, as a certain closeness of the 
lips in pronunciation, and a smothered smoulderingness 
of disposition, seldom roused to open flame ? An un- 
restrained intercourse with fire probably conducive to 
generosity and hospitality of soul. Ancient Mexicans 
used stoves, as the friar Augustin Ruiz reports, Hak- 
luyt, III., 468, — but Popish priests not always reliable 
authority. 

To-day picked my Isabella grapes. Crop injured by 
attacks of rose-bug in the spring. Whether Noah was 
justifiable in preserving this class of insects ? 



INTRODUCTION. 35 

S. Concerning Mr. Biglow's pedigree. Tolerably 
certain that there was never a poet among his ancestors. 
An ordination hymn attributed to a maternal uncle, 
but perhaps a sort of production not demanding the 
creative faculty. 

His grandfather a painter of the grandiose or Michael 
Angelo school. Seldom painted objects smaller than 
houses or barns, and these with uncommon expression. 



c. Of the Wilburs no complete pedigree. The crest 
said to be a wild ioar, whence, perhaps, the name. ( ?) 
A connection with the Earls of Wilbraham {quasi wild 
boar ham) might be made out. This suggestion worth 

following up. In 1677, John W. m. Expect , had 

issue, 1. John, 2. Haggai, 3. Expect, 4. Euhamah, 
5. Desire. 

" Hear lyes y© bodye of Mrs. Expect Wilber, 
Ye crewell salvages they kil'd her 
Together wth other Christian soles eleaven, 
October ye ix daye, 1707. 
Ye stream of Jordan sh' as crost ore 
And now expeacts me on ye other shore : 
I live in hope her soon to join ; 
Her earthlye yeeres were forty and nine." 

From Gravestone in Pekussett, North Parish. 

This is unquestionably the same John who afterward 
(1711) married Tabitha Hagg or Ragg. 

But if this were the case, she seems to have died 
early ; for only three years after, namely, 1714, we 
have evidence that he married Winifred, daughter of 
Lieutenant Tipping. 

He seems to have been a man of substance, for we 
find him in 1696 conveying *^ one undivided eightieth 



36 INTRODUCTION. 

part of a salt-meadow " in Yabbok, and he commanded 
a sloop in 1702. 

Those who doubt the importance of genealogical 
studies fuste potius quam argumerito erudiendi. 

I trace him as far as 1723, and there lose him. In 
that year he was chosen selectman. 

No gravestone. Perhaps overthrown when new 
hearse-house was built, 1802. 

He was probably the son of John, who came from 
Bilham Comit. Salop, circa 1642. 

This first John was a man of considertible importance, 
being twice mentioned with the honorable prefix of Mr, 
in the town records. Name spelt with two Z's. 

" Hear lyeth ye bod \stone unhappily 'broken.'\ 
Mr. Ihon Willber [Esq.] [I enclose this in brackets 
as doubtful. To me it seems clear.] 

Oh^t die [illegible ; looks like xviii.] ill [pro6. 1693.J 

paynt 
deseased seiute : 
A friend and [fath] er untoe all ye opreast, 
Hee gave ye wicked familists noe reast, 
When Sat [an bljewe his Antinomian blaste, 
Wee clong to [Willber as a steadf]ast maste. 
[AJgaynst ye horrid Qua[kers] 

It is greatly to be lamented that this curious epitaph 
is mutilated. It is said that the sacrilegious British 
soldiers made a target of this stone during the war of 
Independence. How odious an animosity which 
pauses not at the grave ! How brutal that which 
spares not the monuments of authentic history ! This 
is not improbably from the pen of Eev. Moody Pyram, 
who is mentioned by Hubbard as having been noted 
for a silver vein of poetry. If his papers be still extant, 
a copy might possibly be recovered. 



THE BIGLOW PAPERS. 



No. I. 
A LETTER 



FROM MR. EZEKIEL BIGLOW OF JAALAM TO THE HOK. 
JOSEPH T. BUCKINGHAM, EDITOR OF THE BOSTOi^ 
COURIER, INCLOSIKG A POEM OF HIS SOK, MR. HOSEA 
BIGLOW. 

Jaylem, June 1846. 

Mister Eddyter : — Our Hosea wuz down to Boston 
last week, and he see a cruetin Sarjunt a struttin round 
as popler as a hen with 1 chicking, with 2 fellers a drum- 
min and fifin arter him like all nater. the sarjunt he 
thout Hosea hedn't gut his i teeth cut cos he looked a 
kindo^s though he^'s jest com down, so he caFlated to 
hook him in, but Hosy woodn't take none o' his sarse 
for all he hed much as 20 Rooster's tales stuck onto his 
hat and eenamost enuf brass a bobbin up and down on 
his shoulders and figureed onto his coat and trousis, let 
alone wut nater hed sot in his featers, to make a 6 
pounder out on. 

wal, Hosea he com home considerabal riled, and 
arter I 'd gone to bed I heern Him a thrash in round like 
a short-tailed Bull in fli-time. The old Woman ses she 

37 



38 THE BIGLOW PAPERS. 

to me ses she, Zekle, ses she, our Hosee's gut the chol- 
lery or suthin anuther ses she, don't you Bee skeered, 
ses I, he's oney amakin pottery * ses i, he's oilers on 
hand at that ere busynes like Da & martin, and shure 
enuf, cum mornin, Hosy he cum down stares full chiz- 
zle, hare on eend and cote tales flyin, and sot rite of to 
go reed his varses to Parson Wilbur bein he hain't aney 
grate shows o' book larnin himself, bimeby he cum back 
and sed the parson wuz dreffle tickled with 'em as i 
hoop you will Be, and said they wuz True grit. 

Hosea ses, tain't hardly fair to call 'em hisn now, cos 
the parson kind o' slicked off sum o' the last varses, but 
he told Hosee he didn't want to put his ore in to tetch 
to the Eest on 'em, bein they wuz verry well As thay 
wuz, and then Hosy ses he sed suthin a nuther about 
Simplex Mundishes or sum sech feller, but I guess Hosea 
kind o' didn't hear him, for I never hearn o' nobody o' 
that name in this villadge, and I've lived here man and 
boy 76 year cum next tater diggin, and thair ain't no 
wheres a kitting spryer 'n I be. 

If you print 'em I wish you'd jest let folks know who 

hosy's father is, cos my ant Keziah used to say it's nater 

to be cur us ses she, she ain't livin though and he's a 

likely kind o' lad. 

EZEKIEL BIGLOW. 



Thrash away, you '11 hev to rattle 
On them kittle drums o' yourn, — 

'Tain't a knowin' kind o' cattle 
Thet is ketched with mouldy corn ; 

* Aut insanit, aut versos facit. — H. W, 



THE BIGLOW PAPERS. 39 

Put in stiff, yon fifer feller, 
Let folks see how spry you be, — 

Guess you '11 toot till you are yeller 
'Fore you git ahold 0' me ! 



Thet air flag 's a lettle rotten, 

Hope it ain't your Sunday's best ; — 
Fact ! it takes a sight o' cotton 

To stuff out a soger's chest : 
Sence we farmers hev to pay fer 't, 

Ef you must wear humps like these, 
Sposin' you should try salt hay fer 't. 

It would du ez slick ez grease. 

'T would n't suit them Southern fellers. 

They 're a dreffle graspin' set. 
We must oilers blow the bellers 

Wen they want their irons het ; 
May be it 's all right ez preachin'. 

But my narves it kind o' grates. 
Wen I see the overreachin' 

0' them nigger-drivin' States. 



Them thet rule us, them slave-traders. 

Hain't they cut a thunderin' swarth, 
(Helped by Yankee renegaders,) 

Thru the vartu o' the North ! 
We begin to think it 's nater 

To take sarse an' not be riled ; — 
Who 'd expect to see a tater 

All on eend at bein' biled ? 



40 THE BIGLOW PAPERS. 

Ez fer war, I call it mnrder, — 

There you hev it plain an' flat ; 
I don't want to go no furder 

Than my Testyment fer that ; 
God hez sed so plump an' fairly. 

It 's ez long ez it is broad, 
An' you 've gut to git up airly 

Ef you want to take in God. 



'T ain't your eppyletts an' feathers 

Make the thing a grain more right ; 
'Taint afollerin' your bell-wethers 

Will excuse ye in His sight : 
Ef you take a sword an' dror it. 

An' go stick a feller thru, 
Guv'ment ain't to answer for it, 

God '11 send the bill to you. 



Wut 's the use o' meeting-goin' 

Every Sabbath, wet or dry, 
Ef it 's right to go amowin' 

Feller-men like oats an' rye ? 
I dunno but wut it 's pooty 

Training round in bobtail coats, — 
But it 's curus Christian dooty 

This ere cuttin' folks's throats. 



They may talk o' Freedom's airy 
Tell they 're pupple in the face,- 

It 's a grand gret cemetary 

Fer the barthrights of our race ; 



THE BIGLOW PAPERS. 41 

They jest want this Californy 

So 's to lug new slave-states in 
To abuse ye, an' to scorn ye. 

An' to plunder ye like sin. 



Ain't it cute to see a Yankee 

Take sech everlastin' pains. 
All to git the Devil's thankee, 

Helpin' on 'em weld their chains ? 
Wy, it 's jest ez clear ez figgers, 

Clear ez one an' one make two. 
Chaps thet make black slaves o' niggers 

Want to make wite slaves o' you. 

Tell me jest the eend I 've come to 

Arter cipherin' plaguy smart. 
An' it makes a handy sum, tu. 

Any gump could larn by heart ; 
Laborin' man an' laborin' woman 

Hev one glory an' one shame, 
Ev'y thin' thet 's done inhuman 

Injers all on 'em the same. 

'Tain't by turnin' out to hack folks 

You 're goin' to git your right. 
Nor by lookin' down on black folks 

Coz you 're put upon by wite ; 
Slavery ain't o' nary color, 

'Tain't the hide thet makes it wus. 
All itkeers fer in a feller 

'S jest to make him fill its pus. 



42 THE BIGLOW PAPERS. 

Want to tackle me in, du ye ? 

I expect you '11 hev to wait ; 
Wen cold lead puts daylight thru ye 

You 11 begin to kaFlate ; 
'Spose the crows wun't fall to pickin' 

All the carkiss from your bones, 
Coz you helped to give a lickin' 

To them poor half-Spanish drones ? 



Jest go home an' ask our Nancy 

Wether I 'd be sech a goose 
Ez to jine ye, — guess you 'd fancy 

The etarnal bung wuz loose ! 
She wants me fer home consumption. 

Let alone the hay 's to mow, — 
Ef you 're arter folks o' gumption. 

You 've a darned long row to hoe. 

Take them editors thet 's crowin' 

Like a cockerel three months old, — 
Don't ketch any on 'em goin'. 

Though they he so blasted bold ; 
Ai7iH they a prime set o' fellers ? 

Tore they think on 't they will sprout, 
(Like a peach thet's got the yellers,) 

With the meanness bustin' out. 

Wal, go long to help 'em stealin' 
Bigger pens to cram with slaves. 

Help the men thet 's oilers dealin' 
Insults on your fathers' graves ; 



THE BIGLOW PAPERS. 43 

Help the strong to grind the feeble. 

Help the many agin the few. 
Help the men thet call your people 

Witewashed slaves an' peddling crew ! 



Massachusetts, God forgive her. 

She 's akneelin' with the rest. 
She, thet ough'' to ha' clung fer ever 

In her grand old eagle-nest ; 
She thet ough' to stand so fearless 

Wile the wracks are round her hurled, 
Holdin' up a beacon peerless 

To the oppressed of all the world ! 



Hain't they sold your colored seamen ? 

Hain't they made your env'ys wiz ? 
Wut '11 make ye act like freemen ? 

Wut '11 git your dander riz ? 
Come, I '11 tell ye wut I 'm thinkin' 

Is our dooty in this fix. 
They 'd ha' done 't ez quick ez winkin' 

In the days 0' seventy-six. 

Clang the bells in every steeple, 

Call all true men to disown 
The tradoocers of our people. 

The enslavers o' their own ; 
Let our dear old Bay State proudly 

Put the trumpet to her mouth. 
Let her ring this messidge loudly 

In the ears of all the South : — 



44 THE BIGLOW PAPERS. 

^' I '11 return ye good fer evil 

Much ez we frail mortils can, 
But I wun't go help the Devil 

Makin' man the cus o^ man ; 
Call me coward, call me traiter. 

Jest ez suits your mean idees, — 
Here I stand a tyrant-hater. 

An' the friend o^ God an' Peace ! *' 

Ef I 'd 7n^ way I hed ruther 

We should go to work an' part, — 
They take one way, we take t'other, — 

Guess it would n't break my heart ; 
Man hed ough' to put asunder 

Them thet God has noways jined ; 
An' I should n't gretly wonder 

Ef there 's thousands o' my mind. 

[The first recruiting sergeant on record I conceive 
to have been that individual who is mentioned in the 
Book of Job as going to and fro in the earth, and ivalk- 
ing up and doion ui it. Bishop Latimer will have him 
to have been a bishop, but to me that other calling 
would appear more congenial. The sect of Cainites is 
not yet extinct, who esteemed the firstborn of Adam 
to be the most worthy, not only because of that priv- 
ilege of primogeniture, but inasmuch as he was able to 
overcome and slay his younger brother. That was a 
wise saying of the famous Marquis Pescara to the Papal 
Legate, that it 'was impossihle for men to serve Mars 
and Christ at the same time. Yet in time past the pro- 
fession of arms was judged to be xar i^o^rjv that of a 
gentleman, nor does this opinion want for strenuous 



THE BIGLOW PAPERS. 45 

upholders even in our day. Must we suppose, then, 
that the profession of Christianity was only intended 
for losels, or, at best, to aiford an opening for plebeian 
ambition ? Or shall we hold with that nicely meta- 
physical Pomeranian, Captain Vratz, who was Count 
Konigsmark's chief instrument in the murder of Mr. 
Thynne, that the Scheme of Salvation has been ar- 
ranged with an especial eye to the necessities of the 
upper classes, and that " God would consider a gentle- 
man and deal with him suitably to the condition and 
profession he had placed him in ? " It may be said of 
us all, Exe7nplo plus quam ratione vivirnus. — H. W.] 



No. II. 
A LETTER 

FROM MR. HOSEA BIGLOW TO THE HON". J. T. BUCK- 
IKGHAM, EDITOR OF THE BOSTON COURIER, COVERING 
A LETTER FROM MR. B. SAWIN, PRIVATE IN THE 
MASSACHUSETTS REGIMENT. 

[This letter of Mr. Sawin's was not originally written 
in verse. Mr. Biglow, thinking it peculiarly suscep- 
tible of metrical adornment, translated it, so to speak, 
into his own vernacular tongue. This is not the time 
to consider the question, whether rhyme be a mode of 
expression natural to the human race. If leisure from 
other and more important avocations be granted, I 
will handle the matter more at large in an appendix to 
the present volume. In this place I will barely remark, 
that I have sometimes noticed in the unlanguaged prat- 
tlings of infants a fondness for alliteration, assonance, 
and even rhyme, in which natural predisposition we 
may trace the three degrees through which our Anglo- 
Saxon verse rose to its culmination in the poetry of 
Pope. I would not be understood as questioning in 
these remarks that pious theory which supposes that 
children, if left entirely to themselves, would naturally 
discourse in Hebrew. For this the authority of one 
experiment is claimed, and I could, Avith Sir Thomas 
Browne, desire its establishment, inasmuch as the 

40 



THE BIGLOW PAPERS. 47 

acquirement of that sacred tongue would thereby be 
facilitated. I am aware that Herodotus states the 
conclusion of Psammeticus to have been in favor of a 
dialect of the Phrygian. But, beside the chance that 
a trial of this importance would hardly be blessed to a 
Pagan monarch whose only motive was curiosity, we 
have on the Hebrew side the comparatively recent 
investigation of James the Fourth of Scotland. I will 
add to this prefatory remark, that Mr. Sawin, though 
a native of Jaalam, has never been a stated attendant 
on the religious exercises of my congregation. I con- 
sider my humble efforts prospered in that not one of 
my sheep hath ever indued the wolf's clothing of 
war, save for the comparatively innocent diversion of a 
militia training. Not that my flock are backward to 
undergo the hardship of defensive warfare. They serve 
cheerfully in the great army which fights even unto 
death jt?ro aris et focis, accoutred with the spade, the 
axe, the plane, the sledge, the spelling-book, and other 
such effectual weapons against want and ignorance and 
unthrift. I have taught them (under God) to esteem 
our human institutions as but tents of a night, to be 
stricken whenever Truth puts the bugle to her lips 
and sounds a march to the heights of wider-viewed 
intelligence and more perfect organization. — H. W.] 

Mister Buckinum, the follerin Billet was writ hum 
by a Yung feller of our town that wuz cussed fool 
enuff to goe atrottin inter Miss Chiff arter a Drum and 
fife, it ain't Nater for a feller to let on that he's sick 
o' any bizness that He went intu off his own free will 
and a Cord, but I rather cal'late he's middlin tired 0' 
voluntearin By this Time. I bleeve u may put de- 



48 THE BIGLOW PAPERS. 

pendunts on his statemence. For I never heered notliin 
bad on him let Alone his havin what Parson Wilbur 
cals a pongsliong for cocktales, and he ses it wuz a 
soshiashun of idees sot him agoin arter the Crootin 
Sargient cos he wore a cocktale onto his hat. 

his Folks gin the letter to me and i shew it to parson 
Wilbur and he ses it oughter Bee printed, send It to 
mister Buckinnm, ses he, i don^t allers agree with him, 
ses he, but by Time,* ses he, I du like a feller that 
ain't a Feared. 

I have intusspussed a Few refleckshuns hear and thair. 
We're kind o' prest with Hayin. 

Ewers respecfly 

HOSEA BIGLOW. 

This kind o' sogerin' ain't a mite like our October 

trainin', 
A chap could clear right out from there ef 't only 

looked like rainin'. 
An' th' Gunnies, tu, could kiver up their shappoes 

with bandanners. 
An' send the insines skootin' to the barroom with their 

banners, 
(Fear o' gittin' on 'em spotted,) an' a feller could cry 

quarter 

* In relation to this expression, I cannot but think that 
Mr. Biglow has been too hasty in attributing it to me. Though 
Time be a comparatively innocent personage to swear hy, 
and though Longinus in his discourse Titpt "Tipovg has com- 
mended timely oaths as not only a useful but sublime figure 
of speech, yet I have always kept my lips free from that 
abomination. Odi profanum vulgus, I hate your swearing 
and hectoring fellows. — H. W. 



' THE BIGLOW PAPERS. 49 

Ef he fired away his ramrod arter tu much rum an' 

water. 
Kecollect wut fun we hed, you ^n I an Ezry Hollis, 
Up there to Waltham plain last fall, ahavin' the Corn- 

wallis ?* 
This sort o' thing ain't yes^ like thet, — I wish thet I was 

furder, — f 
Nimepunce a day fer killin' folks comes kind o* low fer 

murder, 
(Wy I \e worked out to slarterin^ some fer Deacon Ce- 
phas Billins, 
An' in the hardest times there wuz I oilers tetched ten 

shillins. 
There's sutthin' gits into my throat thet makes it hard 

to swaller. 
It comes so nateral to think about a hempen collar ; 
It 's glory, — but, in spite o' all my tryin' to git callous, 
I feel a kind o' in a cart, aridin' to the gallus. 
But wen it comes to dein^ killed, — I tell ye I felt 

streaked 
The fust time ever I found out wy baggonets wuz 

peaked ; 
Here 's how it wuz : I started out to go to a fandango. 
The sentinul he-ups an' sez, ^^Thet's furder 'an you 

can go." 
** None o' your sarse," sez I ; sez he, *^ Stan' back !" 

*^ Ain't you a buster ? " 
Sez I, '^I'm up to all thet air, I guess I've ben to 

muster ; 

* i halt the Site of a feller with a muskit as I du pizn But 
their is fun to a cornwallis I ain't agoin' to deny it.— H. B. 
I he means Not quite so fur i guess. — H. B, 
4 



50 THE BIGLOW PAPERS. 

I know wy sentinuls air sot ; you ain't agoin' to eat 

us ; 
Caleb hain't no monopoly to court theseenoreetas ; 
My folks to hum air full ez good ez hisn be, by golly ! " 
An' so Gz I wuz goin' by, not thinkin wut would folly, 
The everlastin' ens he stuok his one-pronged pitchfork 

in me 
An' made a hole right thru my close ez ef I wuz an 

in'my. 
Wal, it beats all how big I felt hoorawin' in ole Fun- 
nel 
Wen Mister Bollesr he gin the sword to our Leftenant 

Cunnle, 
(It's Mister Secondary Bolles,* thet writ the prize 

peace essay ; 
Thet 's why he did n't list himself along o' us, I dessay,) 
An' Rantoul, tu, talked pooty loud, but don't put his 

foot in it, 
Coz human life 's so sacred thet he 's principled agin' 

it- 
Though I myself can 't rightly see it 's any wus achokin' 

on 'em 
Than puttin' bullets thru their lights, or with a bagnet 

pokin' on 'em ; 
How dreffle slick he reeled it off, (like Blitz at our 

lyceum 
Ahaulin' ribbins from his chops so quick you skeercely 

see 'em,) 
About the Anglo-Saxon race (an' saxons would be 

handy 
To du the buryin' down here upon the Eio Grandy), 

* the ignerant creeter means Sekketary ; but he oilers stuck 
to his books like cobbler's wax to an ile-stone. — H. B. 



THE BIGLOW PAPERS. 51 

About onr patriotic pas an' onr star-spangled banner. 

Our country's'bird alookin' on an' singin' out hosauner. 

An' how he (Mister B. himself) wuz happy fer Amer- 
iky,— 

I felt, ez sister Patience sez, a leetle mite histericky. 

I felt, I swon, ez though it wuz a dreffle kind o' privi- 
lege 

Atrampin' round thru Boston streets among the gutter's 
drivelage ; 

I act'lly thought it wuz a treat to hear a little drum- 
min'. 

An' it did bonyfidy seem millanyum wuz acomin' 

Wen all on us got suits (darned like them wore in the 
state prison) 

An' every feller felt ez though all Mexico wuz hisn.* 

This 'ere 's about the meanest place a skunk could wal 

diskiver 
(Saltillo 's Mexican, I b'lieve, fer wut we call Saltriver). 
The sort o' trash a feller gits to eat doos beat all nater, 
I 'd give a year's pay fer a smell o' one good bluenose 

tater ; 
The country here that Mister Bolles declared to be so 

charmin 
Throughout is swarmin' with the most alarmin' kind o'" 

varmin'. 

* it must be aloud that thare 's a streak o' nater in levin' she, 
but it sartinly is 1 of the curusost things in nater to see a ris- 
pecktable dri goods dealer (deekon off a chutch may by) a 
riggin' himself out in the Weigh they du and struttin' round 
in the Reign aspilin' his trowsis and makin' wet goods of him- 
self. Ef any thin 's foolisher and moor dicklus than militerry 
gloary it is milishy gloary. — H. B, 



52 THE BIGLOW PAPERS. : 

He talked about delishis f roots, but then it wuz a wopper 

all. 
The hoU on't 's mud an' prickly pears, with here an' 

there a chapparal ; 
You see a feller peekin' out, an', fust you know, a lariat 
Is round your throat an' you a copse, 'fore you can say, 

'' Wut air ye at ? " * 
You never see sech darned gret bugs (it may not be 

irrelevant 
To say I 've seen a scarabceus pilularius t big ez a year 

old elephant,) 
The rigiment come up one day in time to stop a red 

bug 
From runnin' off with Cunnle Wright, — 't wuz jest a 

common cimex lectularius. 
One night I started up on eend an' thought I wuz to 

hum agin, 
I heern a horn, thinks I it 's Sol the fisherman hez come 

agin. 
His bellowses is sound enough, — ez I 'm a livin creeter, 
I felt a thing go thru my leg, — 't wuz nothin' more 'n 

a skeeter ! 
Then there 's the yaller fever, tu, they call it here el 

vomito, — 
(Come, thet wun't du, you landcrab there, I tell ye to 

le' go my toe ! 

* these fellers are verry proppilly called Rank Heroes, and 
the more tha kill the ranker and more Herowick tha bekum. 
— H. B. 

f it wuz " tumblebug " as he Writ it, but the parson put the 
Latten instid. i sed tother maid better meeter, but he said 
tha was eddykated peepl to Boston and tha would n't stan' it 
no how. idnow as tha wood and idnow as tha wood. — H. B, 



THE BIGLOW PAPERS. 53 

My gracious ! it 's a scorpion thet 's took a shine to 

play with 't, 
I dars n't skeer the tarnal thing f er fear he 'd run away 

with't.) 
Afore I come away from hum I hed a strong persuasion 
Thet Mexicans worn't human beans,* — an ourang 

outang nation, 
A sort o' folks a chap could kill an' never dream on 't 

arter, 
No more 'n a feller 'd dream o' pigs thet he hed hed to 

slarter ; 
I 'd an idee thet they were built arter the darkie fashion 

all, 
An' kickin' colored folks about, you know, 's a kind o' 

national ; 
But when I jined I worn't so wise ez thet air queen o' 

Sheby, 
Fer, come to look at 'em, they ain't much diff'rent from 

wut we be, 
An' here we air ascrougin' 'em out o' thir own do- 
minions, 
Ashelterin' 'em, ez Caleb sez, under our eagle's pin- 
ions, 
Wich means to take a feller up jest by the slack o' 's 

trowsis 
An' walk him Spanish clean right out o' all his homes 

an' houses ; 
Wal, it doos seem a curus way, but then hooraw fer 

Jackson ! 
It must be right, fer Caleb sez it 's reglar Anglo-saxon. 

* he means human beins, that 's wut he means. I spose he 
kinder thought tha wuz human beans ware the Xisle Poles 
comes from, — H. B. 



54 THE BIGLOW PAPERS, 

The Mexicans don't fight fair, they say, they piz'n all 

the water. 
An' du amazin' lots o' things thet is n't wut they ough' to ; 
Bein' they hain't no lead, they make their bullets out o' 

copper 
An' shoot the darned things at us, tu, wich Caleb sez 

ain't proper ; 
He sez they 'd ough' to stan' right up an' let us pop 'em 

fairly, 
(Guess wen he ketches 'em at thet he '11 hev to git up 

airly,) 
Thet our nation 's bigger 'n theirn an' so its rights air 

bigger, 
An' thet it 's all to make ^em free thet we air pullin' trig- 
ger, 
Thet Anglo Saxondom's idee 's abreakin' 'em to pieces. 
An' thet idee 's thet every man doos jest wut he damn 

pleases ; 
Ef I don't make his meanin' clear, perhaps in some re- 

spex I can, 
I know thet '^ every man" don't mean a nigger or a 

Mexican ; 
An' there 's another thing I know, an' thet is, ef these 

creeturs, 
Thet stick an Anglosaxon mask onto State-prison 

feeturs. 
Should come to Jaalam Centre fer to argify an' spout 

on 't, 
The gals 'ould count the silver spoons the minnit they 

cleared out on 't. 

This goin' ware glory waits ye hain't one agreeable 
feetur, 



THE BIGLOW PAPERS. 55 

An' if it worn't fer wakin' snakes, V d home agin short 
meter ; 

0, would n't I be off, quick time, eft worn't that I 
wuz sartin 

They 'd let the daylight into me to pay me fer desartin ! 

I don't approve o' tellin' tales, but jest to you I may 
state 

Our ossifers ain't wiit they wuz afore they left the Bay- 
state ; 

Then it wuz ^^ Mister Sawin, sir, you 're middlin' well 
now, be ye ? 

Step up an' take a nipper, sir ; I 'm dreffle glad to see 

ye"; 

But now it's '' Ware's my eppylet ? here, Sawin, step 

an' fetch it ! 
An' mind your eye, be thund'rin' spry, or, damn ye, 

you shall ketch it ! " 
Wal, ez the Doctor sez, some pork will bile so, but by 

mighty, 
Ef I hed some on 'em to hum, I 'd give 'em linkum vity, 
I 'd play the rogue's march on their hides an' other 

music follerin' 

But I must close my letter here, for one on 'em 's ahol- 

lerin'. 
These Anglosaxon ossifers, — wal, tain't no use ajawin', 
I 'm safe enlisted fer the war, 
Yourn, 

BIRDOFREDOM SAWIN. 

[Those have not been wanting (as, indeed, when hath 
Satan been to seek for attorneys ?) who have maintained 
that our late inroad upon Mexico was undertaken, not 
so much for the avenging of any national quarrel, as for 



56 THE BIGLOW PAPERS. 

the spreading of free institutions and of Protestantism. 
Capita vix duahus Anticyris medenda ! Verily lad- 
mire that no pious sergeant among these new Cru- 
saders beheld Martin Luther riding at the front of the 
host upon a tamed pontifical bull, as, in that former 
invasion of Mexico, the zealous Diaz (spawn though he 
were of the Scarlet Woman) was favored with a vision 
of St. James of Oompostella, skewering the infidels upon 
his apostolical lance. We read, also, that Richard of 
the lion heart, having gone to Palestine on a similar 
errand of mercy, was divinely encouraged to cut the 
throats of such Paynims as refused to swallow the 
bread of life (doubtless that they might be thereafter 
incapacitated for swallowing the filthy gobbets of Ma- 
hound) by angels of heaven, who cried to the king and 
his knights, — Seigneurs, tuez ! tuez ! providentially 
using the French tongue, as being the only one under- 
stood by their auditors. This would argue for the pan- 
toglottism of these celestial intelligences, while, on the 
other hand, the Devil teste Cotton Mather, is unversed 
in certain of the Indian dialects. Yet must he be a 
semeiologist the most expert, making himself intelligible 
to every people and kindred by signs ; no other dis- 
course, indeed, being needful, than such as the mack- 
erel-fisher holds with his finned quarry, who, if other 
bait be wanting, can by a bare bit of white rag at the 
end of a string captivate those foolish fishes. Such pis- 
catorial oratory is Satan cunning in. Before one he 
trails a hat and feather or a bare feather without a hat ; 
before another, a Presidential chair, or a tidewaiter's 
stool, or a pulpit in the city, no matter what. To us, 
dangling there over our heads, they seem junkets 
dropped out of the seventh heaven, sops dipped iu 



THE BIGLOW PAPERS. 57 

nectar, but, once in our mouths, they are all one, bits 
of fuzzy cotton. 

This, however, by the way. It is time now revocare 
gradum. While so many miracles of this sort, vouched 
by eyewitnesses, have encouraged the arms of Papists, 
not to speak of those Dioscuri (whom we must conclude 
imps of the pit) who sundry times captained the pagan 
Roman soldiery, it is strange that our first American 
crusade was not in some such wise also signalized. 
Yet it is said that the Lord hath manifestly prospered 
our armies. This opens the question, whether, when 
our hands are strengthened to make great slaughter of 
our enemies, it be absolutely and demonstratively cer- 
tain that this might is added to us from above, or 
whether some Potentate from an opposite quarter may 
not have a finger in it, as there are few pies into which 
his meddling digits are not thrust. Would the Sancti- 
fier and Setter-apart of the seventh day have assisted in 
a victory gained on the Sabbath, as was one in the late 
war ? Or has that day become less an object of his es- 
pecial care since the year 1697, when so manifest a pro- 
vidence occurred to Mr. William Trowbridge, in answer 
to whose prayers, when he and all on shipboard with 
him were starving, a dolphin was sent daily, ^' which 
was enough to serve 'em ; only on Saturdays they still 
catched a couple, and on the Lord's Days they could 
catch none at all" ? Haply they might have been per- 
mitted, by way of mortification, to take some few scul- 
pins (those banes of the salt-water angler), which un- 
seemly fish would, moreover, have conveyed to them a 
symbolical reproof for their breach of the day, being 
known in the rude dialect of our mariners as Cajye Cod 
Clergymen, 



58 THE BIGLOW PAPERS. 

It has been a refreshment to many nice consciences 
to know that our Chief Magistrate would not regard 
with eyes of approval the (by many esteemed) sinful 
pastime of dancing, and I own myself to be so far of 
that mind, that I could not but set my face against this 
Mexican Polka, though danced to the Presidential pip- 
ing with a Gubernatorial second. If ever the country 
should be seized with another such mania de propa- 
ganda fide, I think it would be Avise to fill our bomb- 
shells with alternate copies of the Cambridge Platform 
and the Thirty-nine Articles, which would produce a 
mixture of the highest explosive power, and to wrap 
every one of our cannon-balls in a leaf of the New Tes- 
tament, the reading of which is denied to those who 
git in the darkness of Popery. Those iron evangelists 
would thus be able to disseminate vital religion and 
Gospel truth in quarters inaccessible to the ordinary 
missionary. I have seen lads, unimpregnate with the 
more sublimated punctiliousness of Walton, secure 
pickerel, taking their unwary siesta beneath the lily- 
pads too nigh the surface, with a gun and small shot. 
Why not, then, since gunpowder was unknown to the 
Apostles (not to enter here upon the question whether 
it were discovered before that period by the Chinese), 
suit our metaphor to the age in which we live and say 
shooters as well sls fishers of men ? 

I do much fear that we shall be seized now and then 
with a Protestant fervor, as long as we have neighbor 
Naboths whose wallowings in Papistical mire excite our 
horror in exact proportion to the size and desirableness 
of their vineyards. Yet I rejoice that some earnest 
Protestants have been made by this war, — I mean those 
who protested against it. Fewer they were than I 



THE BIGLOW PAPERS. 59 

conld wish, for one miglit imagine America to have 
been colonized by a tribe of those nondescript African 
animals the Aye-Ayes, so difficult a word is JVo to us 
all. There is some malformation or defect of the vocal 
organs, which either prevents our uttering it at all, or 
gives it so thick a pronunciation as to be unintelligible. 
A mouth filled with the national pudding, or watering 
in expectation thereof, is wholly incompetent to this 
refractory monosyllable. An abject and herpetic Pub- 
lic Opinion is the Pope, the Anti-Christ, for us to pro- 
test against e corde cordium. And by what College of 
Cardinals is this our GodVvicar, our binder and looser, 
elected ? Very like, by the sacred conclave of Tag, 
Rag, and Bobtail, in the gracious atmosphere of the 
grog-shop. Yet it is of this that we must all be puppets. 
This thumps the pulpit-cushion, this guides the editor's 
pen, this wags the senator's tongue. This decides 
what Scriptures are canonical, and shuffles Christ away 
into the Apocrypha. '^ According to that sentence fath- 
ered upon Solon, Ootud drjiJ.6<nov xaxov epyerat ol'xaS' 
ixdffTo). This unclean spirit is skilful to assume various 
shapes. I have known it to enter my own study and 
nudge my elbow of a Saturday, under the semblance of 
a wealthy member of my congregation. It were a 
great blessing, if every particular of what in the sum 
we call popular sentiment could carry about the name 
of its manufacturer stamped legibly upon it. I gave a 
stab under the fifth rib to that pestilent fallacy, — '^ Our 
country, right or wrong," — by tracing its original to a 
speech of Ensign Cilley at a dinner of the Bungtown 
Fencibles.— H. W.] 



/ 



No. III. 
WHAT MR. ROBINSON THINKS. 

[A FEW remarks on the following verses will not be 
out of place. The satire in them was not meant to 
have any personal, but only a general, application. Of 
the gentleman upon whose letter they were intended as 
a commentary Mr. Biglow had never heard, till he saw 
the letter itself. The position of the satirist is often- 
times one which he would not have chosen, had the 
election been left to himself. In attacking bad prin- 
ciples, he is obliged to select some individual who has 
made himself their exponent, and in whom they are 
impersonate, to the end that what he says may not, 
through ambiguity, be dissipated tenues in auras. For 
what says Seneca ? Longum iter per prcecepta, hreve et 
efficace per exempla. A bad principle is comparatively 
harmless while it continues to be an abstraction, nor can 
the general mind comprehend it fully till it is printed 
in that large type which all men can read at sight, 
namely, the life and character, the sayings and doings, 
of particular persons. It is one of the cunningest 
fetches of Satan, that he never exposes himself directly 
to our arrows, but, still dodging behind this neighbor 
or that acquaintance, compels us to wound him through 
them, if at all. He holds our affections as hostages, 
the while he patches up a truce with our conscience. 

Meanwhile, let us not forget that the aim of the true 
60 



THE BIGLOW PAPERS. Ql 

satirist is not to be severe upon persons, but only upon 
falsehood, and, as Truth and Falsehood start from the 
same point, and sometimes even go along together for a 
little way, his business is to follow the path of the lat- 
ter after it diverges, and to show her floundering in the 
bog at the end of it. Truth is quite beyond the reach 
of satire. There is so brave a simplicity in her, that 
she can no more be made ridiculous than an oak or 
pine. The danger of the satirist is, that continual use 
may deaden his sensibility to the force of language. 
He becomes more and more liable to strike harder than 
he knows or intends. He may be careful to put on his 
boxing-gloves, and yet forget, that, the older they 
grow, the more plainly may the knuckles inside be felt. 
Moreover, in the heat of contest, the eye is insensibly 
drawn to the crown of victory, whose tawdry tinsel 
glitters through that dust of the ring which obscures 
Truth's wreath of simple leaves. I have sometimes 
thought that my young friend, Mr. Biglow, needed a 
monitory hand laid on his arm, — aliquid sufflaminan- 
dus erat. I have never thought it good husbandry to 
water the tender plants of reform with aqua fortis, yet, 
where so much is to do in the beds, he were a sorry 
gardener who should wage a whole day's war with an 
iron scuffle on those ill weeds that make the garden- 
walks of life unsightly, when a sprinkle of Attic salt 
will wither them up. Est ars etiam maledicendi, says 
Scaliger, and truly it is a hard thing to say where the 
graceful gentleness of the lamb merges in downright 
sheepishness. We may conclude with worthy and wise 
Dr. Fuller, that *' one may be a lamb in private wrongs, 
but in hearing general affronts to goodness they are 
asses which are not lions." — H. W.] 



62 THE BIGLOW PAPERS. 

GuvENER B. is a sensible man ; 

He stays to his home an' looks arter his folks ; 
He draws his furrer ez straight ez he can. 
An' into nobody's tater-patch pokes ; — 
But John P. 
Robinson he 
Sez he wunt vote fer Guvener B. 

My ! ain't it terrible ? Wut shall we du ? 

We can't never choose him, o' course, — thet's flat 
Guess we shall hev to come round, (don't you ?) 
An' go in fer thunder an' guns, an' all that ; 
Fer John P. 
Robinson he 
Sez he wunt vote fer Guvener B. 

Gineral 0. is a dreffle smart man : 

He 's ben on all sides thet give places or pelf ; 
But consistency still wuz a part of his plan, — 
He's ben true to one party,— an' thet is himself ;- 
So John P. 
Robinson he 
Sez he shall vote fer Gineral 0. 

Gineral C. he goes in fer the war,; 

He don't vally principle more 'n an old cud ; 
Wut did God make us raytional creeturs fer. 
But glory an' gunpowder, plunder an' blood ? 
So John P. 
Robinson he 
Sez he shall vote fer Gineral C. 

We were gittin' on nicely up here to our village. 
With good old idees o' wut's right an' wut ain't. 



THE BIGLOW PAPERS. 63 

We kind o' thought Christ went agin war an^ pil- 
lage. 
An' thet epplyetts worn't the best mark of a saint ; 
But John P. 
Robinson he 
Sez this kind o' thing's an exploded idee. 

The side of our country must oilers be took, 

An' Presidunt Polk, you know, he is our country ; 
An' the angel thet writes all our sins in a book 
Puts the debit to him, an' to us the per contry ; 
An' John P. 
Robinson he 
Sez this is his view o' the thing to a T. 

Parson Wilbur he calls all these argimunts-Jies ; 
Sez they 're nothin' on airth but jest fee, faw, 
fum ; 
An' thet all this big talk of our destinies 

Is half on it ignorance, an 't'other half rum ; 
But John P. 
Robinson he 
Sez it ain't no sech thing ; an', of course, so must 
we. 

Parson Wilbur sez lie never heerd in his life 
Thet th' Apostles rigged out in their swaller-tail 
coats. 
An' marched round in front of a drum an' a fife. 
To git some on 'em office, an' some on 'em votes ; 
But John P. 
Robinson he 
Sez they did n't know everythin' down in Judee. 



04 THE BIGLOW PAPERS. 

Wal, it 's a niarcy we \e gut folks to tell ns 

The rights an' the wrongs o' these matters, I vow, — 
God sends country lawyers, an' other wise fellers. 
To drive the world's team wen it gits in a slough ; 
Fer John P. 
Robinson he 
Sez the world '11 go right, ef he hollers out Gee ! 

[The attentive reader will doubtless have perceived in 
the foregoing poem an allusion to that pernicious sen- 
timent, — ^' Our country, right or wrong." It is an 
abuse of language to call a certain portion of land, much 
more, certain personages elevated for the time being to 
high station, our country. I would not sever nor loosen 
a single one of those ties by which we are united to the 
spot of our birth, nor minish by a tittle the respect 
due to the Magistrate. I love our own Bay State too 
well to do the one, and as for the other, I have myself 
for nigh forty years exercised, however unworthily, the 
function of Justice of the Peace, having been called 
thereto by the unsolicited kindness of that most excellent 
man and upright patriot, Caleb Strong. Patrim fumus 
igne alieno luculentior is best qualified with this, — TJhi 
lilertas, ihi patria. We are inhabitants of two worlds, 
and owe a double, but not a divided, allegiance. In vir- 
tue of our clay, this little ball of earth exacts a certain 
loyalty of us, while, in our capacity as spirits, we are 
admitted citizens of an invisible and holier fatherland. 
There is a patriotism of the soul whose claim absolves 
us from our other and terrene fealty. Our true coun- 
try is that ideal realm which we represent to ourselves 
under the names of religion, duty, and, the like. Our 
terrestrial organizations are but far-off approaches to so 



THE BIGLOW PAPERS. 65 

fair a model, and they all are verily traitors who resist 
not any attempt to divert them from this their original 
intendment. When, therefore, one would have us to 
fling up our caps and shout with the multitude, — ^' Our 
country, hotvever bomided!" he demands of us that we 
sacrifice the larger to the less, the higher to the lower, 
and that we yield to the imaginary claims of a few acres 
of soil our duty and privilege as liegemen of Truth. 
Our true country is bounded on the north and the south, 
on the east and the west, by Justice, and when she over- 
steps that invisible boundary-line by so much as a hair's 
breadth, she ceases to be our mother, and chooses rather 
to be looked upon quasi noverca. That is a hard choice, 
when our earthly love of country calls upon us to 
tread one path and our duty points us to another. We 
must make as noble and becoming an election as did 
Penelope between Icarius and Ulysses. Veiling our 
faces, we must take silently the hand of Duty to follow 
her. 

Shortly after the publication of the foregoing poem, 
there appeared some comments upon it in one of the 
public prints which seemed to call for some animadver- 
sion. I accordingly addressed to Mr. Buckingham, of 
the Boston Courier, the following letter. 

'^ Jaalam, November 4, 1847. 

*' To the Editor of the Courier : 

*' Respected Sir, — Calling at the post office this 
morning, our worthy and efficient postmaster offered 
for my perusal a paragraph in the Boston Morning- 
Post of the 3d instant, wherein certain effusions of the 
pastoral muse are attributed to the pen of Mr. James 
Russell Lowell. For aught I know or can affirm to 
5 



QQ THE BIGLOW PAPERS. 

the contrary, this Mr. Lowell may be a very deserving, 
person and a youth of parts (though I have seen verses 
of his which I could never rightly understand) ; and if 
he be such, he, I am certain, as well as I, would be 
free from any proclivity to appropriate to himself what- 
ever of credit (or discredit) may honestly belong to an- 
other. I am confident, that, in penning these few 
lines, I am only forestalling a disclaimer from that 
young gentleman, whose silence hitherto, when rumor 
pointed to himward, has excited in my bosom mingled 
emotions of sorrow and surprise. Well may my young 
parishioner, Mr. Biglow, exclaim with the poet. 

' Sic vos non robis,' &c. ; 

though, in saying this, I would not convey the impres- 
sion that he is a proficient in the Latin tongue, — the 
tongue, I might add, of a Horace and a Tully. 

' ' Mr. B. does not employ his pen, I can safely say, 
for any lucre of worldly gain, or to be exalted by the 
carnal plaudits of men, digito monstrari, &c. He does 
not wait upon Providence for mercies, and in his heart 
mean merces. But I should esteem myself as verily de- 
ficient in my duty (who am his friend and in some 
unworthy sort his spiritual ^t??^5 Achates, &c.), if I did 
not step forward to claim for him whatever measure of 
applause might be assigned to him by the judicious. 

^'If this were a fitting occasion, I might venture 
here a brief dissertation touching the manner and kind 
of my young friend's poetry. But I dubitate whether 
this abstruser sort of speculation (though enlivened by 
some apposite instances from Aristophanes) would 
sufficiently interest your oppidan readers. As regards 
their satirical tone, and their plainness of speech, I 



THE BIGLOW PAPERS. 67 

will only say, that, in my pastoral experience, I have 
found that the Arch-Enemy loves nothing better than 
to be treated as a religious, moral, and intellectual 
being, and that there is no apage Sathanas ! so potent 
as ridicule. But it is a kind of weapon that must 
have a button of good-nature on the point of it. 

'^ The productions of Mr. B. have been stigmatized 
in some quarters as unpatriotic ; but I can vouch that 
he loves his native soil with that hearty, though dis- 
criminating, attachment which springs from an inti- 
mate social intercourse of many years' standing. In 
the ploughing season, no one has a deeper share in the 
well-being of the country than he. If Dean Swift were 
right in saying that he who makes two blades of grass 
grow where one grew before confers a greater benefit 
on the state than he who taketh a city, Mr. B. might 
exhibit a fairer claim to the Presidency than General 
Scott himself. I think that some of those disinterested 
lovers of the hard-handed democracy, whose fingers 
have never touched anything rougher than the dollars 
of our common country, would hesitate to compare 
palms with him. It would do your heart good, re- 
spected Sir, to see that young man mow. He cuts a 
cleaner and wider swarth than any in his town. 

'^ But it is time for me to be at my Post. It is very 
clear that my young friend's shot has struck the lintel, 
for the Post is shaken (Amos ix. 1). The editor of 
that paper is a strenuous advocate of the Mexican war, 
and a colonel, as I am given to understand. I presume, 
that, being necessarily absent in Mexico, he has left his 
journal in some less judicious hands. At any rate the 
Post has been too swift on this occasion. It could 
hardly have cited a more incontrovertible line from 



68 THE BIGLOW PAPERS. 

any poem than that which it has selected for animad- 
version, namely, — 

' We kind o' thought Christ went agin war an' pillage.' 

'* If the Post maintains the converse of this propo- 
sition, it can hardly be considered as a safe guidepost 
for the moral and religious portions of its party, how- 
ever many other excellent qualities of a post it may be 
blessed with. There is a sign in London on which is 
painted, — ' The Green Man.' It would do very well as 
a portrait of any individual who would support so un- 
scriptural a thesis. As regards the language of the 
line in question, I am bold to say that He who readeth 
the hearts of men will not account any dialect unseemly 
which conveys a sound and pious sentiment. I could 
wish that such sentiments were more common, how- 
ever uncouthly expressed. Saint Ambrose affirms, that 
Veritas a quocunque (why not, then, quomodocunque?) 
dicatur a S2nritu sancto est. Digest also this of Bax- 
ter : — ^ The plainest words are the most profitable 
oratory in the weightiest matters." 

'' When the paragraph in question was shown to Mr. 
Biglow, the only part of it which seemed to give him 
any dissatisfaction was that which classed him with the 
Whig party. He says, that, if resolutions are a nour- 
ishing kind of diet, that party must be in a very hearty 
and flourishing condition ; for that they have quietly 
eaten more good ones of their own baking than he could 
have conceived to be possible without repletion. He 
has been for some years past (I regret to say) an ardent 
opponent of those sound doctrines of protective policy 
which form so prominent a portion of the creed of that 
party. I confess, that, in some discussions which I^ 



THE BIGLOW PAPERS. 59 

have had with him on this point in my study, he has 
displayed a vein of obstinacy which I had not hitherto 
detected in his composition. He is also (horresco ref- 
erens infected in no small measure with the peculiar 
notions of a print called the Liberator, whose heresies 
I take every proper opportunity of combating, and of 
which, I thank God, I have never read a single line. 

"I did not see Mr. B.'s verses until they appeared 
in print, and there is certainly one thing in them which 
I consider highly improper. I allude to the personal 
references to myself by name. To confer notoriety on 
an humble individual who is laboring quietly in his vo- 
cation, and who keeps his cloth as free as he can from 
the dust of the political arena (though v(b milii si non 
evcmgelizavero), is no doubt an indecorum. The senti- 
ments which he attributes to me I will not deny to be 
mine. They were embodied, though in a different 
form, in a discourse preached upon the last day of 
public fasting, and were acceptable to my entire people 
(of whatever political views), except the postmaster, 
who dissented ex officio. I observe that you sometimes 
devote a portion of your paper to a religious summary. 
I should be well pleased to furnish a copy of my dis- 
course for insertion in this department of your instruc- 
tive journal. By omitting the advertisements, it might 
easily be got within the limits of a single number, and 
I venture to insure you the sale of some scores of copies 
in this town. I will cheerfully render myself respon- 
sible for ten. It might possibly be advantageous to 
issue it as an extra. But perhaps you will not esteem 
it an object, and I will not press it. My offer does not 
spring from any weak desire of seeing my name in 
print ; for I can enjoy this satisfaction at any time by 



70 THE BIGLOW PAPERS. 

turning to the Triennial Catalogue of the University, 
where it also possesses that added emphasis of Italics 
with which those of my calling are distinguished. 

*' I would simply add, that I continue to fit ingenu- 
ous youth for college, and that I have two spacious and 
airy sleeping apartments at this moment unoccupied. 
Ingenuas didicisse, &c. Terms, which vary according 
to the circumstances of the parents, may be known on 
application to me by letter, post paid. In all cases the 
lad will be expected to fetch his own towels. This 
rule, Mrs. W. desires me to add, has no exceptions. 
'•' Respectfully, your obedient servant, 

'' HOMER WILBUR, A. M." 

'^ P. S. Perhaps the last paragraph may look like 
an attempt to obtain the insertion of my circular gratui- 
tously. If it should appear to you in that light, I de- 
sire that you would erase it, or charge for it at the 
usual rates, and deduct the amount from the proceeds 
in your hands from the sale of my discourse, when it 
shall be printed. My circular is much longer and 
more explicit, and will be forwarded without charge to 
any who may desire it. It has been very neatly ex- 
ecuted on a letter sheet, by a very deserving printer, 
who attends upon my ministry, and is a creditable speci- 
men of the typographic art. I have one hung over my 
mantelpiece in a neat frame, where it makes a beauti- 
ful and appropriate ornament, and balances the profile 
of Mrs. W., cut with her toes by the young lady born 
without arms. 

'' H. W." 

I have in the foregoing letter mentioned General 
Scott in connection with the Presidency, because I 



THE BIGLOW PAPERS. 71 

have been given to understand that he has blown to 
pieces and otherwise caused to be destroyed more Mexi- 
icans than any other commander. His claim would 
therefore be deservedly considered the strongest. Until 
accurate returns of the Mexicans killed, wounded, and 
maimed be obtained, it will be difficult to settle these 
nice points of precedence. Should it prove that any 
other officer has been more meritorious and destructive 
than General S., and has thereby rendered himself 
more worthy of the confidence and support of the con- 
servative portion of our community, I shall cheerfully 
insert his name, instead of that of General S., in a 
future edition. It may be thought, likewise, that 
General S. has invalidated his claims by too much at- 
tention to the decencies of apparel, and the habits 
belonging to a gentleman. These abstruser points of 
statesmanship are beyond my scope. I wonder not that 
successful military achievement should attract the 
admiration of the multitude. Rather do I rejoice 
with wonder to behold how rapidly this sentiment is 
losing its hold upon the popular mind. It is related 
of Thomas Warton, the second of that honored name 
who held the office of Poetry Professor at Oxford, that, 
when one wished to find him, being absconded, as was 
his wont, in some obscure alehouse, he was counselled 
to traverse the city with a drum and fife, the sound of 
which inspiring music would be sure to draw the 
Doctor from his retirement into the street. We are 
all more or less bitten with this martial insanity. 

Nescio qud dulcedi7ie cundos ducit. I confess 

to some infection of that itch myself. When I see a 
Brigadier-General maintaining his insecure elevation 
in the saddle under the severe fire of the training-field, 



^2 THE BIGLOW PAPERS. 

and when I remember that some military enthusiasts, 
through haste, inexperience, or an over-desire to lend 
reality to those fictitious combats, will sometimes dis- 
charge their ramrods, I cannot but admire, while I de- 
plore, the mistaken devotion of those heroic officers. 
Semel insanivwius omfies. I was myself, during the 
late war with Great Britain, chaplain of a regiment, 
which was fortunately never called to active military 
duty. I mention this circumstance with regret rather 
than pride. Had I been summoned to actual warfare, 
I trust that I might have been strengthened to bear my- 
self after the manner of that reverend father in our 
New England Israel, Dr. Benjamin Colman, who, as 
we are told in Turell's life of him, when the vessel in 
which he had taken passage for England was attacked 
by a French privateer, '' fought like a philosopher and 
a Christian, .... and prayed all the while he charged 
and fired." As this note is already long, I shall not 
here enter upon a discussion of the question, whether 
Christians may lawfully be soldiers. I think it suffi- 
ciently evident, that, during the first two centuries 
of the Christian era, at least, the two professions 
were esteemed incompatible. Consult Jortin on this 
head.— H. W. 



No. IV. 

REMARKS OF INCREASE D. O'PHACE, ESQUIRE, AT AN" 
EXTRUMPERY CAUCUS IN STATE STREET, REPORTED 
By MR. H. BIGLOW. 

[The ingenious reader will at once understand that 
no such speech as the following was ever totidem verbis 
pronounced. But there are simpler and less guarded 
wits, for the satisfying of which such an explanation 
may be needful. For there are certain invisible lines, 
which as Truth successively overpasses, she becomes 
Untruth to one and another, of us, as a large, river, 
flowing from one kingdom into another, sometimes 
takes a new name, albeit the waters undergo no change, 
how small soever. There is, moreover, a truth of fic- 
tion more veracious than the truth of fact, as that of 
the Poet, which represents to us things and events as 
they ought to be, rather than servilely copies them as 
they are imperfectly imaged in the crooked and smoky 
glass of our mundane affairs. It is this which makes 
the speech of Antonius, though originally spoken in no 
wider a forum than the brain of Shakspeare, more 
historically valuable than that other which Appian 
has reported, by as much as the understanding of the 
Englishman was more comprehensive than that of the 
Alexandrian. Mr. Biglow, in the present instance, 
has only made use of a license assumed by all the his- 
torians of antiquity, who put into the mouths of various 

73 



74 THE BIGLOW PAPERS. 

characters such words as seem to them most fitting to 
the occasion and to the speaker. If it be objected 
that no such oration could ever have been delivered, I 
answer, that there are few assemblages for speech-mak- 
ing which do not better deserve the title of Parliamen- 
tum Indoctorwn than did the sixth Parliament of 
Henry the Fourth, and that men still continue to have 
as much faith in the Oracle of Fools as ever Pantagruel 
had. Howell, in his letters, recounts a merry tale of 
a certain ambassador of Queen Elizabeth, who, having 
written two letters, one to her Majesty and the other 
to his wife, directed them at cross-purposes, so that the 
Queen was beducked and bedeared and requested to send 
a change of hose, and the wife was beprincessed and 
otherwise unwontedly besuperlatived, till the one feared 
for the wits of her ambassador, the other for those of 
her husband. In like manner it may be presumed that 
our speaker has misdirected some of his thoughts, and 
given to the whole theatre what he would have wished 
to confide only to a select auditory at the back of the 
curtain. For it is seldom that we can get any frank 
utterance from men, who address, for the most part, a 
Buncombe either in this world or the next. As for 
their audiences, it may be truly said of our people, 
that they enjoy one political institution in common 
with the ancient Athenians : I mean a certain profitless 
kind of ostracism^ wherewith, nevertheless, they seem 
hitherto well enough content. For in Presidential 
elections, and other affairs of the sort, whereas I ob- 
serve that the oysters fall to the lot of comparatively 
few, the shells (such as the privileges of voting as they 
are told to do by the ostrivori aforesaid, and of huzzaing 
at public meetings) are very liberally distributed 



THE BIGLOW PAPERS. 75 

among the people, as being their prescriptive and quite 
sufficient portion. 

The occasion of the speech is supposed to be Mr. 
Palfrey's refusal to vote for the Whig candidate for the 
Speakership. — H. W.] 



No ? Hez he ? He hain't, though ? Wut ? Voted 

agin him ? 
Ef the bird of our country could ketch him, she'd 

skin him ; 
I seem 's though I see her, with wrath in each quill. 
Lake a chancery lawyer, afilin' her bill. 
An' grindin' her talents ez sharp ez all nater, 
To pounce like a writ on the back 0' the traiter. 
Forgive me, my friends, ef I seem to be het. 
But a crisis like this must with vigor be met ; 
Wen an Arnold the star-spangled banner bestains, 
HoU Fourth 0' Julys seem to bile in my veins. 

Who ever 'd ha' thought sech a pisonous rig 
Would be run by a chap thet wuz chose fer a Wig ? 
*' We knowed wut his principles wuz 'fore we sent 

him"? 
Wut wuz ther in them from this vote to pervent him ? 
A marciful Providunce fashioned us holler 
0' purpose thet we might our principles swaller ; 
It can hold any quantity on 'em, the belly can. 
An' bring 'em up ready fer use like the pelican. 
Or more like the kangaroo, who (wich is stranger) 
Puts her family into her pouch Aven there 's danger. 
Ain't principle precious ? then, who 's goin' to use it 
Wen there 's resk 0' some chap's gittin' up to abuse it ? 



Y6 THE BIGLOW PAPERS. 

I can^t tell the wy on 't, but notliin' is so sure 
Ez thet principle kind o' gits spiled by exposure ; * 
A man thet lets all sorts o' folks git a sight on 't 
Ough' to hev it all took right away, every mite on't ; 
Ef he can't keep it to himself when it 's wise to, 
He ain't one it 's fit to trust nothin^ so nice to. 

Besides, ther 's a wonderful power in latitude 
To shift a man's morril relations an' attitude ; 
Some flossifers think thet a fakkilty 's granted 
The minnit it 's proved to be thoroughly wanted, 
Thet a change o' demand makes a change o' condi- 
tion. 
An' thet everythin' 's nothin' except by position ; 
Ez, fer instance, thet rubber-trees fust begun bearin* 
Wen p'litickle conshunces come into wearin', — 
Thet the fears of a monkey, whose holt chanced to 

fail, 
Drawed the vertibry out to a prehensile tail ; 
So, wen one's chose to Congriss, ez soon ez he's in it, 
A collar grows right round his neck in a minnit. 
An' sartin it is thet a man cannot be strict 
In bein' himself, wen he gits to the Deestrict, 

* The speaker is of a different mind from Tully, who, in his 
recently discovered tractate De Rupublica, tells us, — Nee vera 
habere vietutern satis est, quasi artem aliqam, nisi utare, and 
from our Milton, who says, — " I cannot praise a fugitive and 
cloistered virtue, unexercised and unbreathed, that never 
sallies out and sees her adversary, but slinks out of the race 
where that immortal garland is to be run for, not unthout 
dust and heat.^' — Areop. He had taken the words out of the 
Roman's mouth, without knowing it, and might well exclaim 
with Austin (if a saint's name may stand sponsor for a curse), 
Pereant qui ante nos nostra diooerint ! — H. W. 



THE BIGLOW PAPERS. ^^7 

Fer a coat thet sets wal here in ole Massachusetts, 
Wen it gits on to Washinton, somehow askew sets. 

Resolves, do you say, o' the Springfield Convention ? 

Thet's percisely the pint I was goin' to mention ; 

Resolves air a thing we most genially keep ill. 

They 're a cheap kind o' dust fer the eyes o' the people ; 

A parcel o' delligits jest git together 

An' chat fer a spell o' the crops an' the weather, 

Then, comin' to order, they squabble awile 

An' let off the speeches they 're ferful '11 spile ; 

Then — Resolve, — That we wunt hev an inch o' slave 

territory ; 
Thet President Polk's holl perceedins air very tory ; 
Thet the war 's a damned war, an' them thet enlist in it 
Should hev a cravat with a dreffle tight twist in it ; 
Thet the war is a war fer the spreadin' o' slavery ; 
Thet our army desarves our best thanks fer their 

bravery ; 
Thet we 're the original friends o' the nation, 
All the rest air a paltry an' base fabrication ; 
Thet we highly respect Messrs. A, B, an' C, 
An' ez deeply despise Messrs. E, F, an' G. 

In this way they go to the eend o' the chapter. 
An' then they bust out in a kind of a raptur 
About their own vartoo, an' folk's stone-blindness 
To the men thet 'ould actilly do 'em a kindness, — 
The American eagle, the Pilgrims thet landed. 
Till on ole Plymouth Rock they git finally stranded. 
Wal, the people they listen and say, '^ Thet 's the 

ticket ; 
Ez fer Mexico, 'tain't no great glory to lick it, 



YS THE BIGLOW PAPERS. 

But 't would be a darned shame to go pullin^ o^ triggers 

To extend the aree of abusin' the niggers/' 

So they march in percessions, an' git up hooraws. 

An' tramp thru the mud fer the good o' the cause^ 

An' think they 're a kind o' fulfillin' the prophecies, 

Wen they 're on'y jest changin' the holders of offices: 

"Ware A sot afore, B is comf'tably seated. 

One humbug 's victor'ous, an' t'other defeated. 

Each honnable doughface gits jest wut he axes, 

An' the people — their annooal soft sodder an' taxes. 

Now, to keep unimpaired all these glorious feeturs 

Thet characterize morril an' reasonin' creeturs, 

Thet give every paytriot all he can cram, 

Thet oust the untrustworthy Presidunt Flam, 

And stick honest Presidunt Sham in his place. 

To the manifest gain o' the hoU human race. 

An' to some indervidgewals on 't in partickler. 

Who love Public Opinion an' know how to tickle 

her, — 
I say thet a party with great aims liks these 
Must stick jest ez close ez a hive full o' bees. 

I 'm willin' a man should go tollable strong 

Agin wrong in the abstract, fer thet kind o' wrong 

Is oilers unpop'lar an' never gits pitied. 

Because it 's a crime no one never committed ; 

But he mus' n't be hard on partickler sins, 

Coz then he'll be kickin' the people's own shins ; 

On'y look at the Demmercrats, see wut they 've done 

Jest simply by stickin' together like fun ; 

They 've sucked us right into a mis'able war 

Thet no one on airth ain't responsible for ; 



THE BIGLOW PAPERS. 79 

They Ve run us a huuderd cool millions in debt, 

(An' fer Demmercrat Homers ther 's good plums left 

yet); 
They talk agin tayriffs, but act fer a high one, 
An' so coax all parties to build up their Zion ; 
To the people they 're oilers ez slick ez molasses. 
An' butter their bread on both sides with The Masses, 
Half 0' whom they 've persuaded, by way of a joke, 
Thet Washinton's mantelpiece fell upon Polk. 

Xow all 0' these blessins the Wigs might enjoy, 
Ef they 'd gumption enough the right means to imploy ; * 
Fer the silver spoon born in Dermocracy's mouth 
Is a kind of a scringe thet they hev to the South ; 
Their masters can cuss 'em an' kick 'em an' wale 'em. 
An' they notice it less 'an the ass did to Balaam ; 
In this way they screw into second-rate offices 
Wich the slaveholder thinks 'ould substract too much 

off his ease ; 
The file-leaders, I mean, du, fer they, by their wiles. 
Unlike the old viper, grow fat on their files. 
Wal, the Wigs hev been tryin' to grab all this prey 

frum 'em 
An' to hook his nice spoon 0' good fortin' away 

frum 'em. 
An' they might ha' succeeded, ez likely ez not 
In lickin' the Demmercrats all round the lot, 
Ef it warn't thet, wile all faithful Wigs were their 

knees on, 

* That was a pithy saying of Persius, and fits our politicians 
without a wrinkle, — Magisterartis, ingeniiquelargitorventer. 
— H. W. 



80 THE BIGLOW PAPERS. 

Some stuffy old codger would holler out, — *^ Treason ! 
You must keep a sharp eye on a dog thet hez bit you 

once. 
An' /ain't a goin' to cheat my constitoounts/' — 
Wen every fool knows thet a man represents 
Not the fellers thet sent him, but them on the fence, — 
Impartially ready to jump either side 
An' make the fust use of a turn o' the tide, — 
The waiters on Providunce here in the city, 
Who compose wut they call a State Centerl Committy. 
Constitoounts air henny to help a man in. 
But arterwards don't weigh the heft of a pin. 
Wy, the people can't all live on Uncle Sam's pus, 
So they 've nothin' to du with 't fer better or wus ; 
It 's the folks thet air kind o' brought up to depend 

on't 
Thet hev any consarn in 't, an' thet is the end on 't. 



Now here wuz New England ahevin' the honor 

Of a chance at the Speakership showered upon her '; — 

Do you say, — " She don't want no more Speakers, but 

fewer ; 
She's hed plenty o' them, wut she wants is a doer'^ ? 
Fer the matter o' thet, it 's notorous in town 
Thet her own representatives du her quite brown. 
But thet 's nothin' to du with it ; wut right hed Pal- 
frey 
To mix himself up with fanatical small fry ? 
Warn't we gittin' on prime with our hot an' cold blowin', 
Acondemnin' the war wilst we kep' it agoin' ? 
WeM assumed with gret skill a commandin' position, 
On this side or thet, no one could n't tell wich one, 



THE BIGLOW PAPERS. 81 

So, wutever sidewipped, we'd a chance at the phmder 
An' could sue fer infringin' our paytented thunder ; 
We were ready to vote fer whoever wuz eligible, 
Ef on all pints at issoo he 'd stay unintelligible. 
Wal, sposin' we hed to gulp down our perfessions. 
We were ready to come out next mornin' with fresh 

ones ; 
Besides, ef we did, 't was our business alone, 
Fer could n't we du wut we would with our own ? 
An' ef a man can, wen pervisions hev riz so. 
Eat up his own words, it 's a marcy it is so. 



Wy, these chaps frum the !N"orth, with back-bones to 

'em, darn ^em, 
'Ould be wuth more 'an Gennle Tom Thumb is to Bar- 

num ; 
Ther's enough thet to office on this very plan grow. 
By exhibitin' how very small a man can grow ; 
But an M. C. frum here oilers hastens to state he 
Belongs to the order cfilled invertebraty, 
Wence some gret filologists judge primy fashy 
Thet M. C. is M. T. by paronomashy ; 
An' these few exceptions air loosus naytury 
Folks 'ould put down their quarters to stare at, like 

fury. 

It 's no use to open the door o' success, 

Ef a member can bolt so fer nothin' or less ; 

Wy, all o' them grand constitootional pillers 

Our four fathers fetched with 'em over the billers. 

Them pillers the people so soundly hev slept on, 

Wile to slav'ry, invasion, an' debt they were swept on. 

Wile our Destiny higher an' higher kep' mountin', 
6 



82 THE BIGLOW PAPERS. 

(Though I guess folks '11 stare wen she hends her ac- 
count in,) 
Ef members in this way go kickin' agin 'em. 
They wunt hev so much ez a feather left in 'em. 

An^ ez fer this Palfrey,* we thought wen we 'd gut 

him in. 
He 'd go kindly in wutever harness we put him in ; 
Supposin' we did know thet he wuz a peace man ? 
Doos he think he can be Uncle Samwell's policeman. 
An' wen Sam gits tipsy an' kicks up a riot, 
Lead him oft' to the lockup to snooze till he 's quiet ? 
Wy, the war is a war thet true paytriots can bear, ef 
It leads to the fat promised land of a tayrift ; 
We don't go an' fight it, nor ain't to be driv on, 
Nor Demmercrats nuther, thet hev wut to live on ; 
Ef it ain't jest the thing thet 's well pleasin' to God, 
It makes us thought highly on elsewhere abroad ; 
The Rooshian black eagle looks blue in his eerie 
An' shakes both his heads wen he hears o' Monteery ; 
In the Tower Victory sets, all of a fluster, 
An' reads, with locked doors, how we won Cherry 

Buster ; 
An' old Philip Lewis — thet come an' kep' school here 
Fer the mere sake o' scorin' his ryalist ruler 
On the tenderest part of our kings infuturo — 
Hides his crown underneath an old shut in his 

bureau. 
Breaks oft in his brags to a suckle o' merry kings, 
How he often hed hided young native Amerrikins, 

* There is truth yet in this of Juvenal, — 

" Dat veniam corvis, vexat censura columbas." 



THE BIGLOW PAPERS. 83 

An', turnin' quite faint in the midst of his fooleries, 
Sneaks down stairs to bolt the front door o' the Tool- 

eries.* 
You say, — '^ We 'd ha' scared 'em by growin' in peace, 
A plaguy sight more then by bobberies like these " ? 
Who is it dares say thet ^'^ our naytional eagle 
Wunt much longer be classed with the birds thet air 

regal, 
Coz theirn be hooked beaks, an' she, arter this slaughter, 
'11 bring back a bill ten times longer 'n sheoug't to ? " 
Wut 's your name ? Come, I see ye, you up-country 

feller. 
You 've put me out severil times with your beller ; 
Out with it ! Wut ? Biglow ? I say nothin' furder, 
Thet feller would like nothin' better 'n a murder ; 
He 's a traiter, blasphemer, an' wut ruther worse is. 
He puts all his ath'ism in dreffle bad verses ; 

* Jortin is willing to allow of other miracles besides those 
recorded in Holy Writ, and why not of other prophecies ? It 
is granting too much to Satan to suppose him, as divers of the 
learned have done, the inspirer of the ancient oracles. Wiser, 
I esteem it, to give chance the credit of the successful ones. 
What is said here of Louis Philippe was verified in some of its 
minute particulars within a few months' time. Enough to 
have made the fortune of Delphi or Hammon, and no thanks 
to Beelzebub neither ! That of Seneca in Medea will suit 
here : — 

" Rapida fortuna ac levis, 
Prsecepsque regno eripuit, exsilio declit." 

Let us allow, even to richly deserved misfortune, our com- 
miseration, and be not over-hasty meanwhile in our censure 
of the French people, left for the first time to govern them- 
selves, remembering that wise sentence of ^scliylus, — 

*A7ras 6e jpaxvi ocrrts olv veov KpaTi'j. 

n. w. 



84 THE BIGLOW PAPERS. 

Socity ain^t safe till sech monsters air out on it. 

Refer to the Post, ef you hev the least doubt on it ; 

Wy, he goes agin war, agin indirect taxes. 

Agin sellin^ wild lands ''cept to settlers with axes. 

Agin holdin' o' slaves, though he knows it '& the corner 

Our libbaty rests on, the mis'able scorner ! 

In short, he would wholly upset with his ravages 

All thet keeps us above the brute critters an' savages. 

An' pitch into all kinds o' briles an' confusions 

The holl of our civilized, free institutions ; 

He writes fer thet rather unsafe print, the Courier, 

An' likely ez not hez a squintin' to Foorier ; 

I '11 be , thet is, I mean I '11 be blest, 

Ef I hark to a word frum so noted a pest ; 
I shan't talk with Jmn, my religion 's too fervent. — 
Good mornin', my friends, I 'm your most humble 
servant. 

[Into the question, whether the ability to express our- 
selves in articulate language has been productive of 
more good or evil, I shall not here enter at large. The 
two faculties of speech and of speech-making are wholly 
diverse in their natures. By the first we make our- 
selves intelligible, by the last unintelligible, to our 
fellows. It has not seldom occurred to me (noting 
how in our national legislature every thing runs to 
talk, as lettuces, if the season or the soil be unpropi- 
tious, shoot up lankly to seed, instead of forming hand- 
some heads) that Babel was the first Congress, the 
earliest mill erected for the manufacture of gabble. In 
these days, what with Town Meetings, School Com- 
mittees, Boards (lumber) of one kind and another. 
Congresses, Parliaments, Diets, Indian Councils, Pala- 



THE BIGLOW PAPERS. 85 

vers, and the like, there is scarce a village which has 
not its factories of this description driven by (milk- 
and-) water power. I cannot conceive the confusion of 
tongues to have been the curse of Babel, since I esteem 
my ignorance of other languages as a kind of Martello- 
tower, in which I am safe from the furious bombard- 
ments of foreign garrulity. For this reason I have ever 
preferred the study of the dead languages, those primi- 
tive formations being Ararats upon whose silent peaks 
1 sit secure and watch this new deluge without fear, 
though it rain figures {simulacra, semblances) of speech 
forty days and nights together, as it not uncommonly 
happens. Thus is my coat, as it were, without but- 
tons by which any but a vernacular wild bore can seize 
me. Is it not possible that the Shakers may intend to 
convey a quiet reproof and hint, in fastening their 
outer garments with hooks and eyes ? 

This reflection concerning Babel, which I find in no 
Commentary, was first thrown upon my mind when an 
excellent deacon of my congregation (being infected 
with the Second Advent delusion) assured me that he 
had received a first instalment of the gift of tongues 
as a small earnest of larger possessions in the like kind 
to follow. For, of a truth, I could not reconcile it with 
my ideas of the Divine justice and mercy that the 
single wall which protected people of other languages 
from the incursions of this otherwise well-meaning prop- 
agandist should be broken down. 

In reading Congressional debates, I have fancied, 
that, after the subsidence of those painful buzzings in 
the brain which result from such exercises, I detected 
a slender residuum of valuable information. I made 
the discovery that nothing takes longer in the saying 



86 THE BIGLOW PAPERS, 

than any thing else, for, as ex nihilo nihil fit, so from 
one polypus nothing any number of similar ones may be 
produced. I would recommend to the attention of 
viva voce debaters and controversialists the admirable 
example of the monk Copres, who, in the fourth cen- 
tury, stood for half an hour in the midst of a great fire, 
and thereby silenced a ManichaBan antagonist who had 
less of the salamander in him. As for those who quar- 
rel in print, I have no concern with them here, since 
the eyelids are a Divinely-granted shield against all 
such. Moreover, I have observed in many modern 
books that the printed portion is becoming gradually 
smaller, and the number of blank or fly-leaves (as they 
are called) greater. Should this fortunate tendency of 
literature continue, books will grow more valuable from 
year to year, and the whole Serbonian bog yield to the 
advances of firm arable land. 

I have wondered, in the Representatives' Chamber 
of our own Commonwealth, to mark how little impres- 
sion seemed to be produced by that emblematic fish 
suspended over the heads of the members. Our wiser 
ancestors, no doubt, hung it there as being the animal 
which the Pythagoreans reverenced for its silence, and 
which certainly in that particular does not so well merit 
the epithet cold-blooded, by which naturalists distin- 
guish it, as certain bipeds, afflicted with ditch-water on 
the brain, who take occasion to tap themselves in 
Fanueil Halls, meeting-houses, and other places of 
public resort. — H. W.] 



No. V. 
THE DEBATE IN THE SENNIT. 

SOT TO A NUSRY RHYME. 

The incident which gave rise to the debate satirized 
in the following verses was the nnsuccessful attempt of 
Drayton and Sayres to give freedom to seventy men and 
women, fellow-beings and fellow-Christians. Had Tri- 
poli, instead of Washington, been the scene of this un- 
dertaking, the unhappy leaders in it would have been 
as secure of the theoretic as they now are of the practi- 
cal part of martyrdom. I question whether the Dey of 
Tripoli is blessed with a District Attorney so benighted 
as ours at the seat of government. Very fitly is he 
named Key, who would allow himself to be made the 
instrument of locking the door of hope against sufferers 
in such a cause. Not all the waters of the ocean can 
cleanse the vile smutch of the jailer's fingers from off 
that little Key. Ahenea clavis, a brazen Key indeed ! 

Mr. Calhoun, who is made the chief speaker in this 
burlesque, seems to think that the light of the nine- 
teenth century is to be put oat as soon as he tinkles his 
little cow-bell curfew. Whenever slavery is touched, 
he sets up his scare-crow of dissolving the Union. 
This may do for the North, but I should conjecture 
that something more than a pumpkin-lantern is re- 
quired to scare manifest and irretrievable Destiny out 

87 



88 THE BIGLOW PAPERS. 

of her path. Mr. Calhoun cannot let go the apron- 
string of the Past. The Past is a good nurse, but we 
must be weaned from her sooner or later, even though, 
like Piotinus, we should run home from school to ask 
the breast, after we are tolerably well-grown youths. 
It will not do for us to hide our faces in her lap, when- 
ever the strange Future holds out her arms and asks us 
to come to her. 

But we are all alike. We have all heard it said, often 
enough, that little boys must not play with fire ; and 
yet, if the matches be taken away from us and put out 
of reach upon the shelf, we must needs get into our 
little corner, and scowl and stamp and threaten the 
dire revenge of going to bed without our supper. The 
world shall stop till we get our dangerous plaything 
again. Dame Earth, meanwhile, who has more than 
enough household matters to mind, goes bustling hither 
and thither as a hiss or a sputter tells her that this or 
that kettle of hers is boiling over, and before bedtime 
we are glad to eat our porridge cold, and gulp down 
our dignity along with it. 

Mr. Calhoun has somehow acquired the name of a 
great statesman, and, if it be great statesmanship to put 
lance in rest and run a tilt at the Spirit of the Age 
with the certainty of being next moment hurled neck 
and heels into the dust amid universal laughter, he de- 
serves the title. He is the Sir Kay of our modern 
chivalry. He should remember the old Scandinavian 
my thus. Thor was the strongest of gods, but he could 
not wrestle with Time, nor so much as lift up a fold of 
the great snake which knit the universe together ; and 
when he smote the Earth, though with his terrible mal- 
let, it was but as if a leaf had fallen. Yet all the while 



THE BIGLOW PAPERS. 39 

it seemed to Thor that lie had only been wrestling with 
an old woman, striving to lift a cat, and striking a 
stupid giant on the head. 

And in old times, doubtless, the giants ivere stupid, 
and there was no better sport for the Sir Launcelots 
and Sir Gawains than to go about cutting off their great 
blundering heads with enchanted swords. But things 
have wonderfully changed. It is the giants, nowadays, 
that have the science and the intelligence, while the 
chivalrous Don Quixotes of Conservatism still cumber 
themselves with the clumsy armor of a bygone age. 
On whirls the restless globe through unsounded time, 
with its cities and its silences, its births and funerals, 
half light, half shade, but never wholly dark, and sure 
to swing round into the happy morning at last. With 
an involuntary smile, one sees Mr. Calhoun letting slip 
his pack-thread cable with a crooked pin at the end of 
it to anchor South Carolina upon the bank and shoal of 
the Past.— H. W.] 

TO MR. bucke:n^am. 

MR. Editer, As i wuz kinder prunin round, in a little 
nussry sot out a year or 2 a go, the Dbait in the sennit 
cum inter my mine An so i took & Sot it to wut I call 
a nussry rime. I hev made sum onuable Gentlemun 
speak that dident speak in a Kind uv Poetikul lie sense 
the seeson is dreffle backerd up This way 

ewers as ushul 

HOSEA BIGLOW. 

'^ Here we stan' on the Constitution, by thunder ! 

It 's a fact 0' wich ther 's bushils 0' proofs ; 
Fer how could we trample on ^t so, I wonder, 

Ef 't worn^t thet it^s oilers under our hoofs ?" 



90 THE BIGLOW PAPERS. 

Sez John C. Calhoun, sez he ; 

'' Human rights hain't no more 

Right to come on this floor. 
No more 'n the man in the moon," sez he. 

" The North hain't no kind o' bisness with nothing 

An' you 've no idee how much bother it saves ; 
We ain't none riled by their frettin' an' frothin'. 
We 're used to layin' the string on our slaves," 
Sez John 0. Calhoun, sez he ; — 
Sez Mister Foote, 
^' I should like to shoot 
The holl gang, by the gret horn spoon ! " sez he. 

" Freedom's Keystone is Slavery, thet ther 's no doubt 
on. 
It 's sutthin' thet 's — wha' d' ye call it ? — divine, — 
An' the slaves thet we oilers 7nake the most out on 
Air them north o' Mason an' Dixon's line," 
Sez John C. Calhoun, sez he ; — 
'* Fer all thet," sez Mangum, 
'^ 'T would be better to hang 'em, 
An' so git red on 'em soon," sez he. 

" The mass ough' to labor an' we lay on soffies, 

Thet 's the reason I want to spread Freedom's area j 
It puts all the cunninest on us in office, 
An' reelises our Maker's orig'nal idee," 
Sez John C. Calhoun, sez he ; — 
" Thet 's ez plain," sez Cass, 
^' Ez thet some one's an ass. 
It's ez clear ez the sun is at noon," sez he. 



THE BIGLOW PAPERS. (jl 

^' Now don't go to say I 'm the frieud of oppression, 

But keep all your spare breath fer coolin' your broth, 
Fer I oilers hev strove (at least thet 's my impression) 
To make cussed free with the rights o' the North," 
Sez John C. Calhoun, sez he ; — 
'* Yes," sez Davis o' Miss., 
'* The perfection o' bliss 
Is in skinnin' thet same old coon,'' sez he. 

** Slavery 's a thing thet depends on complexion. 

It 's God's law thet fetters on black skins don't chafe ; 
Ef brains wuz to settle it (horrid reflection !) 
Wich of our onnable body 'd be safe ? " 
Sez John 0. Calhoun, sez he ; — 
Sez Mister Hannegan, 
Afore he began agin, 
'* Thet exception is quite oppertpon," sez he. 

*' Gen'nle Cass, Sir, you need n't be twitchin' your col- 
lar. 
Your merit 's quite clear by the dut on your knees. 
At the North we don't make no distinctions o' color ; 
You can all take a lick at our shoes wen you please," 
Sez John C. Calhoun, sez he ; — 
Sez Mister Jarnagin, 
^' They wunt hev to larn agin. 
They all on 'em know the old toon," sez he. 

'' The slavery question ain't no ways bewilderin'. 

North an' South hev one int'rest, it 's plain to a glance ; 
No'thern men, like us patriarchs, don't sell their chil- 
drin, 
But they du sell themselves, ef they git a good 
chance," 



92 THE BIGLOW PAPERS. 

Sez John C. Calhoun, sez he ; — 

Sez Atherton here, 

*' This is gittin' severe, 
I wish I could dive like a loon," sez he. 

'^ ini break up the Union, this talk about freedom. 

An' your fact'ry gals (soon ez we split) '11 make head. 
An' gittin' some Miss chief or other to lead 'em, 
'11 go to work raisin' promiscoous Ned," 
Sez John 0. Calhoan, sez he ; — 

''Yes, the North," sez Colquitt, 
'' Ef we Southerners all quit. 
Would go down like a busted balloon," sez he. 

''Jest look wut is doin', wut annyky 's brewin' 

In the beautiful clime o' the olive an' vine. 
All the wise aristoxy is tumblin' to ruin, 
An' the sankylots drorin' an' drinkin' their wine," 
Sez John C. Calhoun, sez he ; — 

" Yes," sez Johnson, " in France 
They 're beginnin' to dance 
Beelzebub's own rigadoon," sez he. 

" The South 's safe enough, it don't feel a mite skeery, 

Our slaves in their darkness an' dut air tu blest 
Not to welcome with proud hallylugers the ery 

Wen our eagle kicks yourn from the naytional nest," 
Sez John C. Calhoun, sez he ; — 
" 0," sez Westcott o' Florida, 
" Wut treason is horrider 
Then our priv'leges tryin' to proon ? " sez he. 

" It 's 'coz they 're so happy, thet, wen crazy sarpints 
Stick their nose in our bizness, we git so darned riled ; 



THE BIGLOW PAPERS. 93 

We think its our dooty to give pooty sharp hints, 
Thet the last crumb of Edin on airth shan't be spiled/' 
Sez John C. Calhoun, sez he ; — 
''^ Ah/' sez Dixon H. Lewis, 
'^ It perfectly true is 
Thet slavery's airth 's grettest boon," sez he. 



[It was said of old time, that riches have wings ; and 
though this be not applicable in a literal strictness to 
the wealth of our patriarchal brethren of the South, 
yet it is clear that their possessions have legs, and an 
unaccountable propensity for using them in a northerly 
direction. I marvel that the grand jury of Washington 
did not find a true bill against the North Star for aid- 
ing and abetting Drayton and Sayres. It would have 
been quite of a piece with the intelligence displayed by 
the South on other questions connected with slavery. 
I think that no ship of state was ever freighted with a 
more veritable Jonah than this same domestic institu- 
tion of ours. Mephistopheles himself could not feign 
so bitterly, so satirically sad a sight as this of three 
millions of human beings crushed beyond help or hope 
by this one mighty argument, — Our fathers knew no 
tetter ! Nevertheless, it is the unavoidable destiny of 
Jonahs to be cast overboard sooner or later. Or shall 
we try the experiment of hiding our Jonah in a safe 
place, that none may lay hands on him to make jetsam 
of him ? Let us, then, with equal forethought and 
wisdom, lash ourselves to the anchor, and await, in 
pious confidence, the certain result. Perhaps our sus- 
picious passenger is no Jonah after all, being black. 
For it is well known that a superintending Providence 



94 THE BIGLOW PAPERS. 

made a kind of sandwich of Ham and his descendants, 
to be devoured by the Caucasian race. 

In God's name, let all, who hear nearer and nearer 
the hungry moan of the storm and the growl of the 
breakers, speak out ! But, alas ! we have no right to 
interfere. If a man pluck an apple of mine, he shall 
be in danger of the justice ; but if he steal my brother 
I must be silent. Who says this ? Our Constitution, 
consecrated by the callous suetude of sixty years, and 
grasped in triumphant argument in the left hand of 
him whose right hand clutches the clotted slave-whip. 
Justice, venerable with the undethronable majesty of 
countless aeons, says, — Speak ! The Past, wise with 
the sorrows and desolations of ages, from amid her 
shattered fanes and wolf-housing palaces, echoes, — 
Speak ! Nature, through her thousand trumpets of 
freedom, her stars, her sunrises, her seas, her winds, 
her cataracts, her mountains blue with cloudy pines, 
blows jubilant encouragement, and cries, — Speak ! 
From the soul's trembling abysses the still, small voice 
not vaguely murmurs, — Speak ! But alas ! the Con- 
stitution and the Honorable Mr. Bagowind, M. C, 
say, — Be Dumb ! 

It occurs to me to suggest, as a topic of inquiry in 
this connection, whether, on that momentous occasion 
when the goats and the sheep shall be parted, the Con- 
stitution and the Honorable Mr. Bagowind, M. C, will 
be expected to take their places on the left as our 
hircine vicars. 

Quid sum miser tunc dicturus ? 
Quern patronum rogaturus 9 

There is a point where toleration sinks into sheer base- 



THE BIGLOW PAPERS. 95 

ness and poltroonery. The toleration of the worst 
leads us to look on what is barely better as good enough 
and to worship what is only moderately good. Woe to 
that man, or that nation, to whom mediocrity has be- 
come an ideal ! 

Has our experiment of self-government succeeded, if 
it barely manage to ruh and go ? Here, now, is a piece 
of barbarism which Christ and the nineteenth century 
say shall cease, and which Messrs. Smith, Brown, and 
others say shall not cease. I would by no means deny 
the eminent respectability of these gentlemen, but I 
confess, that, in such a wrestling-match, I cannot help 
having my fears for them. 

JHscitejustitiam, moniti, et non temnere divos. 

H. W.] 



No. VI. 

THE Pious EDITOR'S CREED. 

[At the special instance of Mr. Biglow, I preface the 
following satire with an extract from a sermon preached 

during the past summer, from Ezekiel xxxiv. 2 : 

'' Son of man, prophesy against the shepherds of 
Israel." Since the Sabbath on which this discourse was 
delivered, the editor of the '^ Jaalam Independent 
Blunderbuss" has unaccountably absented himself from 
our house of worship. 

'^ I know of no so responsible position as that of the 
public journalist. The editor of our day bears the 
same relation to his time that the clerk bore to the age 
before the invention of printing. Indeed, the position 
which he holds is that which the clergyman should hold 
even now. But the clergyman chooses to walk off to 
the extreme edge of the world, and to throw such seed 
as he has clear over into that darkness which he calls 
the Next Life. As if 7iext did not mean nearest, and 
as if any life were nearer than that immediately present 
one which boils and eddies all around him at the cau- 
cus, the ratification meeting, and the polls ! Who 
taught him to exhort men to prepare for eternity, as 
for some future era of which the present forms no inte- 
gral part ? The furrow which Time is even now turn- 
96 



THE BIGLOW PAPERS. 97 

ing runs through the Everlasting, and in that must he 
plant, or nowhere. Yet he would fain believe and 
teach that we are going to have more of eternity- than 
we have now. This going of his is like that of the auc- 
tioneer, on which gone follows before we have made up 
our minds to bid, — in which manner, not three months 
back, 1 lost an excellent copy of Chappelow on Job. 
So it has come to pass that the preacher, instead of 
being a living force, has faded into an emblematic 
figure at christenings, weddings, and funerals. Or, if 
he exercise any other function, it is as keeper and feeder 
of certain theologic dogmas, which, when occasion 
offers, he unkennels with a stciboy ! '^ to bark and bite 
as 't is their nature to,'' whence that reproach of odium 
theologicwn has arisen. 

^^ Meanwhile, see what a pulpit the editor mounts 
daily, sometimes with a congregation of fifty thousand 
within reach of his voice, and never so much as a nod- 
der, even, among them ! And from what a Bible can 
he choose his text, — a Bible which needs no translation, 
and which no priestcraft can shut and clasp from the 
laity, — the open volume of the world, upon which, with 
a pen of sunshine or destroying fire, the inspired Pres- 
ent is even now writing the annals of God ! Methinks 
the editor who should understand his calling, and be 
equal thereto, would truly deserve that title of notfxijv 
Xaajvj which Homer bestows upon princes. He would 
be the Moses of our nineteenth century, and whereas 
the old Sinai, silent now, is but a common mountain 
stared at by the elegant tourist and crawled over by the 
hammering geologist, he must find his tables of the 
new law here among factories and cities in this Wilder- 
ness of Sin (Numbers xxxiii, 12), called Progress of 
7 



98 THE BIGLOW PAPERS. 

Civilization, and be the captain of our Exodus into the 
Canaan of a truer social order. 

^' Nevertheless, our editor will not come so far within 
even the shadow of Sinai as Mahomet did, but chooses 
rather to construe Moses by Joe Smith. He takes up 
the crook, not that the sheep may be fed, but that he 
may never want a warm woollen suit and a joint of mut- 
ton. 

Immemor, O, fidei pecorumque ohlite tuorum ! 

For which reason I would derive the name editor not 
so much from edOy to publish, as from edo, to eat, that 
being the peculiar profession to which he esteems him- 
self called. He blows up the flames of political discord 
for no other occasion than that he may thereby handily 
boil his own pot. I believe there are two thousand of 
these mutton-loving shepherds in the United States, and 
of these, how many have even the dimmest perception 
of their immense power, and the duties consequent there- 
on ? Here and there, haply, one. Nine hundred and 
ninety-nine labor to impress upon the people the great 
principles of Tweedledum, and other nine hundred and 
ninety-nine preach with equal earnestness the gospel 
according to Tweedledee,'^ — H. W.] 

I DU believe in Freedom's cause, 

Ez fur away ez Paris is ; 
I love to see her stick her claws 

In them infarnal Pharisees ; 
It 's wal enough agin a king 

To dror resolves an' triggers, — 
But libbaty 's a kind o' thing 

Thet don't agree with niggers. 



THE BIGLOW PAPERS, 99 

I du believe the people want 

A tax on teas an' coffees, 
Thet nothin' ain't extravygunt, — 

Purvidin' I 'm in office ; 
Fer I hev loved my country sence 

My eye-teeth filled their sockets. 
An' Uncle Sam I reverence, 

Particularly his pockets. 



I du believe in any plan 

0' levyin' the taxes, 
Ez long ez, like a lumberman, 

I git jest wut I axes : 
I go free-trade thru thick an' thin. 

Because it kind 0' rouses 
The folks to vote, — an' keeps us in 

Our quiet customhouses. 

I du believe it 's wise an* good 

To sen' out furrin missions, 
Thet is, on sartin understood 

An' ort?iydox conditions ; — 
I mean nine thousan' dolls, per ann.^ 

Nine thousan' more fer outfit. 
An' me to recommend a man 

The place 'ould jest about fit. 

I du believe in special ways 

0' prayin' an' convartin' ; 
The bread comes back in many days. 

An' buttered, tu, fer sartin ; — 



100 THE BIGLOW PAPERS. 

I mean in preyin' till one busts 
On wut the party chooses. 

An' in convartin' public trusts 
To every privit uses. 



I du believe hard coin the stuff 

Fer Electioneers to spout on ; 
The people's oilers soft enough 

To make hard money out on ; 
Dear Uncle Sam pervides fer his. 

An' gives a good-sized junk to all, — 
I don't care hoio hard money is, 

Ez long ez mine's paid punctooal. 

I du believe with all my soul 

In the gret Press's freedom. 
To pint the people to the goal 

An' in the traces lead 'em ; 
Palsied the arm thet forges yokes 

At my fat contracts squintin'. 
An' withered be the nose thet pokes 

Inter the gov'ment printin' ! 



I du believe thet I should give 

Wut's his'n unto Caesar, 
Fer it 's by him I move an' live, 

Frum him my bread an' cheese air ; 
I du believe thet all o' me 

Doth bear his souperscription, — 
Will, conscience, honor, honesty. 

An' things o' thet description. 



THE BIGLOW PAPERS. 101 

I du believe in prayer an' praise 

To him thet hez the grantin' 
0' jobs, — in every thin' thet pays, 

But most of all in Cantin' ; 
This doth my cup with marcies fill. 

This lays all thought o' sin to rest, — 
I donH believe in princerple, 

But, 0, I du in interest. 



I du believe in bein' this 

Or thet, ez it may happen 
One way or t'other hendiest is 

To ketch the people nappin' ; 
It ain't by princerples nor men 

My preudunt course is steadied, — 
I scent wich pays the best, an' then 

Go into it bald headed. 



I du believe thet hold in' slaves 

Comes nat'ral tu a Presidunt, 
Let 'lone the rowdedow it saves 

To hev a wal-broke precedunt ; 
Fer any office, small or gret, 

I could n't ax with no face. 
Without I'd ben, thru dry an' wet, 

Th' unrizzest kind o' doughface. 

I du believe wutever trash 

'11 keep the people in blindness, — 
Thet we the Mexicuns can thrash 

Eight inter brotherly kindness, 



102 THE BIGLOW PAPERS. 

Thet bombshells, grape, an' powder 'n' ball 
Air good-wilFs strongest magnets, 

Thet peace, to make it stick at all. 
Must be druv in with bagnets. 

In short, I firmly du believe 

In Humbug generally, 
Per it 's a thing thet I perceive 

To hev a solid vally ; 
This heth my faithful shepherd ben, 

In pasturs sweet heth led me. 
An' this '11 keep the people green 

To feed ez they hev fed me. 

[I subjoin here another passage from my before- 
mentioned discourse. 

'^ Wonderful, to him that has eyes to see it rightly, 
is the newspaper. To me, for example, sitting on the 
critical front bench of the pit, in my study here in 
Jaalam, the advent of my weekly journal is as that of a 
strolling theatre, or rather of a puppet-show, on whose 
stage, narrow as it is, the tragedy, comedy, and farce 
of life are played in little. Behold the whole huge 
earth sent to me hebdomadally in a brown paper wrapper ! 

*"' Hither, to my obscure corner, by wind or steam, on 
horseback or dromedary-back, in the pouch of the In- 
dian runner, or clicking over the magnetic wires, troop 
all the famous performers from the four quarters of the 
globe. Looked at from a point of criticism, tiny pup- 
pets they seem all, as the editor sets up his booth upon 
my desk and officiates as showman. Now I can truly 
see how little and transitory is life. The earth appears 
almost as a drop of vinegar, on which the solar micro- 



THE BIG LOW PAPERS. 103 

scope of the imagination must be brought to bear in 
order to make out anything distinctly. That animal- 
cule there, in the pea-jacket, is Louis Philippe, just 
landed on the coast of England. That other, in the 
gray surtout and cocked hat, is Napoleon Bonaparte 
Smith, assuring France that she need apprehend no 
interference from him in thepresent alarming juncture. 
At that spot, where you seem to see a speck of some- 
thing in motion, is an immense mass meeting. Look 
sharper, and you will see a mite brandishing his man- 
dibles in an excited manner. That is the great Mr. 
Soandso, defining his position amid tumultuous and 
irrepressible cheers. That infinitesimal creature, upon 
whom some score of others, as minute as he, are gazing 
in open-mouthed admiration, is a famous philosopher, 
expounding to a select audience their capacity for the 
Infinite. That scarce discernible pufflet of smoke and 
dust is a revolution. That speck there is a reformer, 
just arranging the lever with which he is to move the 
world. And lo^ there creeps forward the shadow of a 
skeleton that blows one breath between its grinning 
teeth, and all our distinguished actors are whisked off 
the slippery stage into the dark Beyond. 

"Yes, the little show box has its solemner sugges- 
tions. Now and then we catch a glimpse of a grim old 
man, who lays down a scythe and hour-glass in the cor- 
ner while he shifts the scenes. There, too, in the dim 
background, a weird shape is ever delving. Sometimes 
he leans upon his mattock, and gazes, as a coach whirls 
by, bearing the newly married on their wedding jaunt, 
or glances carelessly at a babe brought home from chris- 
tening. Suddenly (for the scene grows larger and larger 
as we look) a bony hand snatches back a performer in the 



104 THE BIGLOW PAPERS. 

midst of his part, and him, whom yesterday two infini- 
ties (past and future) would not suffice, a handful of 
dust is enough to cover and silence forever. Nay, we 
see the same fleshless fingers opening to clutch the 
showman himself, and guess, not without a shudder, 
that they are lying in wait for spectators also. 

'^ Think of it : for three dollars a year I buy a season 
ticket to this great Globe Theatre, for which God would 
write the dramas (only that we like farces, spectacles, 
and the tragedies of Apollyon better), whose scene- 
shifter is Time, and whose curtain is rung down by 
Death. 

'' Such thoughts will occur to me sometimes as I am 
tearing off the wrapper of my newspaper. Then sud- 
denly that otherwise too often vacant sheet becomes 
invested for me with a strange kind of awe. Look ! 
deaths and marriages, notices of inventions, discoveries 
and books, lists of promotions, of killed, wounded, and 
missing, news of fires, accidents, of sudden wealth and 
as sudden poverty ; — I hold in my hand the ends of 
myriad invisible electric conductors, along which trem- 
ble the joys, sorrows, wrongs, triumphs, hopes, and 
despairs of as many men and women everywhere. So 
that upon that mood of mind which seems to isolate 
me from mankind as a spectator of their puppet-pranks, 
another supervenes, in which I feel that I, too, unknown 
and unheard of, am yet of some import to my fellows. 
For, through my newspaper here, do not families take 
pains to send me, an entire stranger, news of a death 
among them ? Are not here two who would have me 
know of their marriage ? And, strangest of all, is not 
this singular person anxious to have me informed that 
he has received a fresh supply of Dimitry Bruisgins ? 



THE BIGLOW PAPERS. 105 

But to none of us does the Present (even if for a mo- 
ment discerned as such) continue miraculous. We 
glance carelessly at the sunrise, and get used to Orion 
and the Pleiades. The wonder wears off, and to-morrow 
this sheet, in which a vision w^as let down to me from 
Heaven, shall be the wrappage to a bar of soap or the 
platter for a beggar's broken victuals/' — H. W.] 



No. VII. 
A LETTEK 

FROM A CANDIDATE FOR THE PRESIDENCY IN ANSWER 
TO SUTTIN QUESTIONS PROPOSED BY MR. HOSEA BIG- 
LOW, INCLOSED IN A NOTE FROM MR. BIGLOW TO S. H. 
GAY, ESQ., EDITOR OF THE NATIONAL ANTI-SLAVERY 
STANDARD. 

[Curiosity may be said to be the quality which pre- 
eminently distinguishes and segregates man from the 
lower animals. As we trace the scale of animated nature 
downward, we find this faculty of the mind (as it may 
truly be called) diminished in the savage, and quite 
extinct in the brute. The first object which civilized 
man proposes to himself I take to be the finding out 
whatsoever he can concerning his neighbors. Nihil 
humanimi a me alienum puto ; I am curious about even 
John Smith. The desire next in strength to this (an 
opposite pole, indeed, of the same magnet) is that of 
communicating intelligence. 

Men in general may be divided into the inquisitive 
and the communicative. To the first class belong Peep- 
ing Toms, eavesdroppers, navel-contemplating Brah- 
mins, metaphysicians, travelers, Empedocleses, spies, 
the various societies for promoting Khinothism, Colum- 
buses, Yankees, discoverers, and men of science, who 

present themselves to the mind as so many marks of 

106 



\sm 



THE BIGLOW PAPERS. 107 

interrogation wandering up and down the world, or sit- 
ting in studies and laboratories. The second class I 
should again subdivide into four. In the first subdi- 
vision I would rank those who have an itch to tell us 
about themselves, — as keepers of diaries, insignificant 
persons generally, Montaignes, Horace Walpoles, auto- 
biographers, poets. The second includes those who are 
anxious to impart information concerning other people, 
— as historians, barbers, and such. To the third belong 
those who labor to give us intelligence about nothing at 
all, — as novelists, political orators, the large majority of 
authors, preachers, lecturers, and the like. In the 
fourth come those who are communicative from motives 
of public benevolence, — as finders of mares^-nests and 
bringers of ill news. Each of us two-legged fowls with- 
out feathers embraces all these subdivisions in himself 
to a greater or less degree, for none of us so much as 
lays an egg, or incubates a chalk one, but straightway 
the whole barnyard shall know it by our cackle or our 
cluck. Omnibus lioc vitium est. There are different 
grades in all these classes. One will turn his telescope 
toward a backyard, another toward Uranus ; one will 
tell you that he dined with Smith, another that he 
supped with Plato. In one particular, all men may be 
considered as belonging to the first grand division, inas- 
much as they all seem equally desirous of discovering 
the mote in their neighbor's eye. 

To one or another of these species every human be- 
ing may safely be referred. I think it beyond a per- 
adventure that Jonah prosecuted some inquiries into the 
digestive apparatus of whales, and that Noah sealed up 
a letter in an empty bottle, that news in regard to him 
might not be wanting in case of the worst. They had 



108 THE BIGLOW PAPERS. 

else been super or subter human. I conceive, also, that, 
as there are certain persons who continually peep and 
pry at the keyhole of that mysterious door through 
which, sooner or later, we all make our exits, so there 
are doubtless ghosts fidgeting and fretting on the other 
side of it, because they have no means of conveying 
back to the world the scraps of news they have picked 
up. For there is an answer ready somewhere to every 
question, the great law of give and take runs through 
all nature, and if we see a hook, we may be sure that an 
eye is waiting for it. I read in every face I meet a 
standing advertisement of information wanted in regard 
to A. B., or that the friends of 0. D. can hear of him 
by application to such a one. 

It was to gratify the two great passions of asking and 
answering that epistolary correspondence was first in- 
vented. Letters (for by this usurped title epistles are 
now commonly known) are of several kinds. First, 
there are those which are not letters at all, — as letters 
patent, letters dismissory, letters inclosing bills, letters 
of administration, Pliny's letters, letters of diplomacy, 
of Cato, of Mentor, of Lords Lyttelton, Chesterfield, 
and Orrer}^ of Jacob Behmen, Seneca (whom St. Jerome 
includes in his list of sacred writers), letters from abroad, 
from sons in college to their fathers, letters of marque, 
and letters generally, which are in no wise letters of 
mark. Second, are real letters, such as those of Gray, 
Cowper, Walpole, Howel, Lamb, the first letters from 
children (printed in staggering capitals) Letters from 
New York, letters of credit, and others, interesting for 
the sake of the writer or the thing written. I have 
read also letters from Europe by a gentleman named 
Pinto^ containing some curious gossip, and which I hope 



THE BIGLOW PAPERS. 109 

to see collected for the benefit of the curious. There 
are, besides, letters addressed to posterity, — as epitaphs, 
for example, written for their own monuments, by mon- 
archs, whereby we have lately become possessed of the 
names of several great conquerors and kings of kings, 
hitherto unheard of and still unpronounceable, but 
valuable to the student of the entirely dark ages. The 
letter which St. Peter sent to King Pepin in the year 
of grace 755 I would place in a class by itself, as also 
the letters of candidates, concerning which I shall dilate 
more fully in a note at the end of the following poem. 
At present, sat prata 'biberiint. Only, concerning the 
shape of letters, they are all either square or oblong, to 
which general figures, circular letters and round-robins 
also conform themselves. — H. W.] 

Deer sir its gut to be the fashnn now to rite letters 
to the candid 8s and i wus chose at a publick Meetin in 
Jaalam to du wut wus nessary fur that town, i writ to 
271 ginerals and gut ansers to 209. tha air called can- 
did 8s but I don't see nothin candid about em. this 
here i wich I send wus thought satty's factory. I dunno 
as it's ushle to print Poscrips, but as all the ansers I got 
hed the saim, I sposed it wus best, times has gretly 
changed. Formaly to knock a man into a cocked hat 
wus to use him up, but now it ony gives him a chance 
fur the cheef madgustracy. — H. B. 



Dear Sir, — You wish to know my notions 
On sartin pints thet rile the land ; 

There 's nothin' thet my natur so shuns 
Ez bein' mum or underhand ; 



110 THE BIGLOW PAPERS. 

I ^m a straight-spoken kind o' creetur 
Thet blurts right out wut "s in his head, 

An^ ef I \e one pecooler feetur, 
It is a nose thet wunt be led. 

So, to begin at the beginnin'. 

An' come direcly to the pint, 
I think the country's underpinnin' 

Is some consid'ble out o' jint ; 
I ain't agoin' to try your patience 

By tellin' who done this or thet, 
I don't make no insinooations, 

I jest let on I smell a rat. 

Thet is, I mean, it seems to me so, 

But, ef the public think I 'm wrong, 
I wunt deny but wut I be so, — 

An', fact, it don't smell very strong ; 
My mind 's tu fair to lose its balance 

An' say wich party hez most sense ; 
There may be folks o' greater talence 

Thet can't set stiddier on the fence. 

I 'm an eclectic ; ez to choosin' 

'Twixt this an' thet, I 'm plaguy lawth ; 
I leave a side thet looks like losin'. 

But (wile there 's doubt) I stick to both ; 
I stan' upon the Constitution, 

Ez preudunt statesmun say, who 've planned 
A way to git the most profusion 

0' chances ez to wa7'e they '11 stand. 

Ez fer the war, I go agin it, — 
I mean to say I kind o' du, — 



THE BIGLOW PAPERS. m 

Thet is, I mean thet, bein' in it. 
The best way wuz to fight it thru ; 

Not but wut abstract war is horrid, 
I sign to thet with all my heart, — 

But civlyzation doos git forrid 
Sometimes upon a powder-cart. 

About thet darned Proviso matter 

I never hed a grain o' doubt, 
Nor I ain't one my sense to scatter 

So 's no one couldn't pick it out ; 
My love fer North an' Soutli is equil, 

So I '11 jest answer plump an' frank. 
No matter wut may be the sequil, — 

Yes, Sir, I am agin a Bank. 

Ez to the answerin' o' questions, 

I 'm an off ox at bein' druv. 
Though I ain't one thet ary test shuns 

'11 give our folks a helpin' shove ; 
Kind o' promiscoous I go it 

Fer the holl country, an' the ground 
I take, ez nigh ez I can show it. 

Is pooty gen'ally all round. 

I don't appruve o' givin' pledges ; 

You 'd ough' to leave a feller free. 
An' not go knockin' out the wedges 

To ketch his fingers in the tree ; 
Pledges air awfle breachy cattle 

Thet preudent farmers don't turn out, — 
Ez long 'z the people git their rattle, 

Wut is there fer 'm to grout about ? 



112 THE BIGLOW PAPERS. 

Ez to the slaves, there^s no confusion 

In lyiy idees consarnin' them, — 
/ think they air an Institution, 

A sort of — yes — yes, jest so, — ahem : 
Do / own any ? Of my merit 

On thet pint you yourself may jedge : 
All is, I never drink no sperit, 

Nor I hain't never signed no pledge. 

Ez to my principles, I glory 

In hevin^ nothin' o' the sort. 
I ain't a Wig, I ain't a Tory, 

I'm jest a candidate, in short , 
Thet 's fair an' square an' parpendicler. 

But, ef the Public cares a fig 
To hev me an'thin' in particler, 

Wy, I 'm a kind o' peri-wig. 

P. S. 

Ez we're a sort o' privateerin', 

0' course, you know, it 's sheer an' sheer. 
An' there is sutthin' wuth your hearin' 

I '11 mention in your privit ear ; 
Ef you git me inside the White House, 

Your head with ile I '11 kin' o' 'nint 
By gittin' you inside the Lighthouse 

Down to the eend o' Jaalam Pint. 

An' ez the North hez took to brustlin' 
At bein' scrouged frum off the roost, 

I '11 tell ye wut '11 save all tusslin' 

An' give our side a harnsome boost, — 



THE BIGLOW PAPERS. II3 

Tell 'em tliet on the Slavery question 

I 'm RIGHT, although to speak I 'm lawth ; 

This gives you a safe pint to rest on. 
An' leaves me frontin' South by North. 

[And now of epistles candidatial, which are of two 
kinds, — namely, letters of acceptance, and letters defin- 
itive of position. Our republic, on the eve of an elec- 
tion, may safely enough be called a republic of letters. 
Epistolary com]30sition becomes then an epidemic, 
which seizes one candidate after another, not seldom 
cutting short the thread of political life. It has come 
to such a pass that a party dreads less the attacks 
of its opponents than a letter from its candidate. 
Liter a scripta manet, and it will go hard if something 
bad cannot be made of it. General Harrison, it is well 
understood, was surrounded, during his candidacy, 
with the cordon sanitaire of a vigilance committee. 
No prisoner in Spielberg was ever more cautiously de- 
prived of writing materials. The soot was scraped 
carefully from the chimney-places ; outposts of expert 
rifle-shooters rendered it sure death for any goose (who 
came clad in feathers) to approach within a certain 
limited distance of North Bend ; and all domestic fowls 
about the premises were reduced to the condition of 
Plato's original man. By these precautions the Gen- 
eral was saved. Parva componere magriis, 1 remember, 
that, when party-spirit once ran high among my people, 
upon occasion of the choice of a new deacon, I, having 
my preferences, yet not caring too openly to express 
them, made use of an innocent fraud to bring about 
that result which I deemed most desirable. My strata- 
gem was no other than the throwing a copy of the Con;- 
8 



114 THE BIGLOW PAPERS. 

plete Letter- Writer in the way of the candidate whom 
I wished to defeat. He caught the infection, and ad- 
dressed a short note to his constituents, in which the 
opposite party detected so many and so grave impro- 
prieties, (he had modelled it upon the letter of a young 
lady accepting a proposal of marriage,) that he not only 
lost his election, but, falling under a suspicion of Sabel- 
lianism and I know not what, (the widow Endive as- 
sured me that he was a Paralipomenon, to her certain 
knowledge,) was forced to leave the town. Thus it is 
that the letter killeth. 

The object which candidates propose to themselves in 
writing is to convey no meaning at all. And here is a 
quite unsuspected pitfall into which they successively 
plunge headlong. For it is precisely in such cryptog- 
raphies that mankind are prone to seek for and find a 
wonderful amount and variety of significance. Onme 
ignotum iwo miriUco. How do we admire at the antique 
world striving to crack those oracular nuts from Delphi, 
Hammon, and elsewhere, in only one of which can I so 
much as surmise that any kernel had ever lodged ; 
that, namely, wherein Apollo confessed that he was 
mortal. One Didymus is, moreover, related to have 
written six thousand books on the single subject of 
grammar, a topic rendered only more tenebrific by the 
labors of his successors, and which seems still to pos- 
sess an attraction for authors in proportion as they 
can make nothing of it. A singular loadstone for 
theologians, also, is the Beast in the Apocalypse, 
whereof, in the course of my studies, I have noted two 
hundred and three several interpretations, each lethif- 
eral to all the rest. Non 7iostrum est tmitas componere 
UteSy yet I have myself ventured upon a two hundred 



THE BIGLOW PAPERS. II5 

and fourth, which I embodied in a discourse preached 
on occasion of the demise of the late usurper, Napoleon 
Bonaparte, and which quieted, in a large measure, the 
minds of my people. It is true that my views on 
this important point were ardently controverted by 
Mr. Shear j ash ub Holden, the then preceptor of our 
academy, and in other particulars a very deserving and 
sensible young man, though possessing a somewhat 
limited knowledge of the Greek tongue. But his 
heresy struck down no deep root, and, he having been 
lately removed by the hand of Providence, I had the 
satisfaction of reaffirming my cherished sentiments in a 
sermon preached upon the Lord's day immediately suc- 
ceeding his funeral. This might seem like taking an 
unfair advantage, did I not add that he had made pro- 
vision in his last will (being celibate) for the publica- 
tion of a posthumous tractate in support of his own 
dangerous opinions. 

I know of nothing in our modern times which 
approaches so nearly to the ancient oracle as the letter 
of a Presidential candidate. Now, among the Greeks, 
the eating of beans was strictly forbidden to all such as 
had it in mind to consult those expert amphibologists, 
and this same prohibition on the part of Pythagoras to 
his disciples is understood to imply an abstinence from 
politics, beans having been used as ballots. That other 
explication, quod videlicet sensus eo cibo oMundi existi- 
maret, though swpi^ov ted pngnis et calcihus by many of 
the learned, and not wanting the countenance of 
Cicero, is confuted by the larger experience of New 
England. On the whole, I think it safer to apply here 
the rule of interpretation which now generally obtains 
in regard to antique cosmogonies, myths, fables, pro- 



116 THE BIGLOW PAPERS. 

verbial expressions, and knotty points generally, whicli 
is, to find a common-sense meaning, and then select 
whatever can be imagined the most opposite thereto. 
In this way we arrive at the conclusion, that the Greeks 
objected to the questioning of candidates. And very 
properly, if, as I conceive, the chief point be not to 
discover what a person in that position is, or what he 
will do, but whether he can be elected. Vos exemplar i a 
GrcBca nocturna versate manu, vey^sate diurna. 

But, since an imitation of the Greeks in this particu- 
lar (the asking of questions being one chief privilege of 
freemen) is hardly to be hoped for, and our candidates 
will answer, whether they are questioned or not, I 
would recommend that these ante-electionary dialogues 
should be carried on by symbols, as were the diplomatic 
correspondences of the Scythians and Macrobii, or con- 
fined to the language of signs, like the famous inter- 
view of Panurge and Goatsnose. A candidate might 
then convey a suitable reply to all committees of inquiry 
by closing one eye, or by presenting them with a phial 
of Egyptian darkness to be speculated upon by their 
respective constituencies. These answers would be 
susceptible of whatever retrospective construction the 
exigencies of the political campaign might seem to 
demand, and the candidate could take his position on 
either side of the fence with entire consistency. Or, if 
letters must be written, profitable use might be made 
of the Dighton rock hieroglyphic or the cuneiform 
script, every fresh decipherer of which is enabled to 
educe a different meaning, whereby a sculptured stone 
or two supplies us, and will probably continue to supply 
posterity, with a very vast and various body of authen- 
tic history. For even the briefest epistle in the ordi- 



THE BIGLOW PAPERS. 117 

nary chirography is dangerous. There is scarce any 
style so compressed that superfluous words may not be 
detected in it. A severe critic might curtail that 
famous brevity of Caesar's by two-thirds, drawing his 
pen through the supererogatory veni and vidi. Per- 
haps, after all, the surest footing of hope is to be found 
in the rapidly increasing tendency to demand less and 
less of qualification in candidates. Already have states- 
manship, experience, and the possession (nay, the pro- 
fession, even) of principles been rejected as superfluous, 
and may not the patriot reasonably hope that the ability 
to write will follow ? At present, there may be death 
in pot-hooks as well as pots, the loop of a letter may 
suffice for a bow-string, and all the dreadful heresies of 
Anti-slavery may lurk in a flourish.— H. W-l 



No. vrii. 

A SECOND LETTER FROM B. SAWIN, Esq. 

[In" the following epistle, we behold Mr. Sawin re- 
turning, a miles emeritus, to the bosom of his family. 
Quantum mutatus! The good Father of us all had 
doubtless intrusted to the keeping of this child of his 
certain faculties of a constructive kind. He had put 
in him a share of that vital force, the nicest economy of 
every minute atom of which is necessary to the perfect 
development of Humanity. He had given him a brain 
and heart, and so had equipped his soul with the two 
strong wings of knowledge and love, whereby it can 
mount to hang its nest under the eaves of heaven. 
And this child, so dowered, he had intrusted to the 
keeping of his vicar, the State. How stands the ac- 
count of that stewardship ? The State, or Society, 
(call her by what name you will, ) had taken no manner 
of thought of him till she saw him swept out into the 
street, the pitiful leavings of last night's debauch, 
with cigar-ends, lemon-parings, tobacco-quids, slops, 
vile stenches, and the whole loathsome next-morning of 
the barroom, — an own child of the Almighty God ! I 
remember him as he was brought to be christened, a 
ruddy, rugged babe ; and now there he wallows, reeking, 
seething, — the dead corpse, not of a man, but of a soul, 
— a putrefying lump, horrible for the life that is in it. 
Comes the wind of heaven, that good Samaritan, and 
118 



THE BIGLOW PAPERS. II9 

parts the hair upon his forehead, nor is too nice to kiss 
those parched, cracked lips ■; the morning opens upon 
him her eyes fall of pitying sunshine, the sky yearns 
down to him, — and there he lies fermenting. sleep ! 
let me not profane thy holy name by calling that 
stertorous unconsciousness a slumber I By and by 
comes along the State, God's vicar. Does she say, — 
*' My poor, forlorn foster-child ! Behold here a force 
which I will make dig and plant and build for me ? " 
Not so, but, — '^Here is a recruit ready-made to my 
hand, a piece of destroying energy lying uprofitably 
idle/^ So she claps an ugly gray suit on him, puts a 
musket in his grasp, and sends him off, with Guber- 
natorial and other godspeeds, to do duty as a destroyer. 
I made one of the crowd at the last Mechanics' Fair, 
and, with the rest, stood gazing in wonder at a perfect 
machine, with its soul of fire, its boiler-heart that sent 
the hot blood pulsing along the iron arteries, and its 
thews of steel. And while I was admiring the adapta- 
tion of means to end, the harmonious involutions of con- 
trivance, and the never-bewildered complexity, I saw a 
grimed and greasy fellow, the imperious engine's lackey 
and drudge, whose sole office was to let fall, at intervals, 
a drop or two of oil upon a certain joint. Then my soul 
said within me. See there a piece of mechanism to which 
that other you marvel at is but as the rude first effort 
of a child, — a force which not merely suffices to set a 
few wheels in motion, but which can send an impulse 
all through the infinite future, — a contrivance, not 
for turning out pins, or stitching buttonholes, but for 
making Hamlets and Lears. And yet this thing of iron 
shall be housed, waited on, guarded from rust and dust, 
and it shall be a crime but so much as to scratch it with 



120 THE BIGLOW PAPERS. 

a pin ; while the other, with its fire of God in it shall 
be buffeted hither and thither, and finally sent carefnlly 
a thousand miles to be the target for a Mexican cannon- 
ball. Unthrifty Mother State ! My heart burned 
within me for pity and indignation, and I renewed this 
covenant with my own soul, — In aliis mansiieUis ero, 
at, in hlasphemiis contra Christu7n, non ita. — H. W.] 



I SPOSE you wonder ware I be ; I can't tell, fer the soul 

o' me, 
Exacly ware I be myself, — meanin' by thet the holl o' 

me. 
Wen I left hum, I hed two legs, an' they worn't bad 

ones neither, 
(The scaliest trick they ever played wuz bringin'on me 

hither,) 
Now one on 'em 's I dunno ware ; — they thought I wuz 

adyin'. 
An' sawed it off because they said 'twuz kin' o' mor- 

tifyin' ; 
I'm willin' to believe it wuz, an'yit I don't see, nuther, 
Wy one should take to f eelin' cheap a minnit sooner 'n 

t'other, 
Sence both wuz equilly to blame ; but things is ez they 

be ; 
It took on so they took it off, an' thet 's enough fer me : 
There 's one good thing, though, to be said about my 

wooden new one, — 
The liquor can't git into it ez 't used to in the true one ; 
So it saves drink ; an' then, besides, a feller could n't 

beg 
A gretter blessin' then to hev one oilers sober peg ; 



THE BIGLOW PAPERS. 121 

It 's true a chap 's in want o* two fer follerin' a drum. 
But all the march I 'ra up to now is jest to Kingdom 
Come. 

I 've lost one eye, but thet 's a loss it 's easy to supply 
Out o' the glory thet I \e gut, fer thet is all my eye ; 
An' one is big enough, I guess, by diligently usin' it. 
To see all I shall ever git by way o' pay fer losin' it ; 
Officers, I notice, who git paid fer all our thumps an' 

kickins. 
Da wal by keepin' single eyes arter the fattest pickins ; 
So, ez the eye 's put fairly out, I '11 larn to go with- 
out it. 
An' not allow myself to be no gret put out about it. 
Now, le' me see, thet is n't all ; I used, 'fore leavin' 

Jaalam, 
To count things on my finger-eends, but sutthin' seems 

to ail 'em : 
Ware 's my left hand ? 0, darn it, yes, I recollect wut 's 

come on 't ; 
I hain't no left arm but my right, an' thet 's gut jest a 

thumb on 't ; 
It ain't so hendy ez it wuz to cal'late a sum on 't. 
I 've had some ribs broke, — six (I b'lieve), — I hain't 

kep' no account on 'em ; 
Wen pensions git to be the talk, I '11 settle the amount 

on 'em. 
An' now I 'm speakin' about ribs, it kin' o' brings to 

mind 
One thet I could n't never break, — the one I lef be- 
hind ; 
Ef you should see her, jest clear out the spout o' your 

invention 



122 THE BIGLOW PAPERS. 

An' pour the longest sweetnin' in about an annooal 

pension. 
An' kin o' hint (in case, you know, the critter should 

refuse to be 
Consoled) I ain't so 'xpensive now to keep ez wut I used 

to be ; 
There 's one arm less, ditto one eye, an' then the leg 

thet 's wooden 
Can be took off an' sot away wenever ther' 's a puddin'. 

I spose you think I 'm comin' back ez opperlunt ez 

thunder, 
With shiploads o' gold images an' varus sorts o' plunder ; 
Wal, 'fore I vullinteered, I thought this country wuz a 

sort o' 
Canaan, a reg'lar Promised Land flowin' with rum an' 

water. 
Ware propaty growed up like time, without no cultiva- 
tion. 
An' gold wuz dug ez taters be among our Yankee 

nation. 
Ware nateral advantages were pufficly amazin'. 
Ware every rock there wuz about with precious stuns 

wuz blazin'. 
Ware mill-sites filled the country up ez thick ez you 

could cram 'em, 
An' desput rivers run about abeggin' folks to dam 'em ; 
Then there were meetinhouses, tu, chockful o' gold an' 

silver 
Thet you could take, an' no one could n't hand ye in no 

bill fer ;— 
Thet 's wut I thonght afore I went, thet 's wut them 

fellers told us 



THE BIGLOW PAPERS. 123 

Thet stayed to hum an' speechified an' to the buzzards 

sold us ; 
I thought thet gold mines could be gut cheaper than 

china asters. 
An' see myself acomin' back like sixty Jacob Astors ; 
But sech idees soon melted down an' did n't leave a 

grease-spot ; 
I vow my holl sheer o' the spiles would n't come nigh 

a V spot ; 
Although, most any wares we 've ben, you need n't break 

no locks. 
Nor run no kin' o' risks, to fill your pocket full o' 

rocks. 
I guess I mentioned in my last some o' the nateral 

feeturs 
0' this all-fiered buggy hole in th' way o' awfle cree- 

turs, 
But I fergut to name (new things to speak on so 

abounded) 
How one day you '11 most die o' thust, an' 'fore the next 

git drown ded. 
The clymit seerns to me just like a teapot made o* 

pewter 
Our Prudence hed, thet would n't pour (all she could 

du) to suit her ; 
Fust place the leaves 'ould choke the spout, so 's not a 

drop 'ould dreen out. 
Then Prude 'ould tip an' tip an' tip, till the holl kit 

bust clean out. 
The kiver-hinge-pin bein' lost, tea-leaves an' tea an' 

kiver 
'ould all come down kerswosh ! ez though the dam broke 

in a river. . 



124 THE BIGLOW PAPERS. 

Jest so 't is here ; holl months there ain't a day o' rainy 

weather. 
An' jest ez th' officers 'ould be alayin' heads to- 
gether 
Ez t' how they 'd mix their drink at sech a milingtary 

deepot, — 
'T 'ould pour ez though the lid wuz off the everlastin' 

teapot. 
The cons'quence is, thet I shall take, wen Fm allowed 

to leave here. 
One piece o' propaty along, — an' thet 's the shakin' 

fever ; 
It 's reggilar employment, though, an' thet ain't thought 

to harm one, 
Nor 't ain't so tiresome ez it wuz with t' other leg an' 

arm on ; 
An' it 's a consolation, tu, although it does n't pay. 
To hev it said you're some gret shakes in any kin' o' 

way. 
'T worn't very long, I tell ye wut, I thought o' fortin- 

makin', — 
One day a reg'lar shiver-de-freeze, an' next ez good ez 

bakin', — 
One day abrilin' in the sand, then smoth'rin' in the 

mashes, — 
Git up all sound, be put to bed a mess o' hacks an' 

smashes. 
But then, thinks I, at any rate there 's glory to be 

hed, — 
Thet 's an investment, arter all, that may n't turn out 

so bad ; 
But somehow, wen we 'd fit an' licked, I oilers found 

the thanks 



THE BIGLOW PAPERS. 125 

Gut kin' o' lodged afore they come ez low down ez the 

ranks ; 
The Gin'rals gut the biggest sheer, the Gunnies next, 

an' so on, — 
We never gut a blasted mite o' glory ez I know on ; 
An' spose we hed, I wonder how you're goin' to con- 
trive its 
Division so 's to give a piece to twenty thousand 

privits ; 
Et you should multiply by ten the portion o' the brav'st 

one. 
You would n't git more 'n half enough to speak of on a 

grave-stun ; 
We git the licks, — we 're jest the grist thet 's put into 

War's hoppers ; 
Leftenants is the lowest grade thet helps pick up the 

coppers. 
It may suit folks thet go agin a body with a soul in 't. 
An' ain't contented with a hide without a bagnet hole 

in 't ; 
But glory is a kin' o' thing / shan't pursue no furder, 
Coz thet 's the off'cers parquisite, — yourn 's on'y jest 

the murder. 
Wal, arter I gin glory up, thinks I at least there 's one 
Thing in the bills we ain't bed yit, an' thet 's the glori- 
ous fu:n' ; 
Ef once we git to Mexico, we fairly may presume we 
All day an' night shall revel in the halls o' Montezumy. 
I '11 tell ye wut my revels wuz, an' see how you would 

like 'em ; 
JVe never gut inside the hall : the nighest ever / come 
Wuz stan'in' sentry in the sun (an', fact, it seemed a 

cent'ry) 



126 THE BIGLOW PAPERS. 

A ketchin' smells o' biled an' roast thet come out thru 

the entry, 
An' hearing ez I sweltered thru my passes an' repasses, 
A rat-tat-too o' knives an' forks, a clink ty- clink o' 

glasses : 
I can't tell oS the bill o' fare the Gin'rals bed inside ; 
All I know is, thet out o' doors a pair o' soles wuz fried. 
An' not a hundred miles away frum ware this child wuz 

posted, 
A Massachusetts citizen wuz baked an' biled an' roasted ; 
The on'y thing like revellin' thet ever come to me 
Wuz bein' routed out o' sleep by thet darned revelee. 



They say the quarrel 's settled now ; fer my part I \e 

some doubt on 't, 
'T '11 take more fish-skin than folks think to take the 

rile clean out on 't ; 
At any rate, I 'm so used up I can't do no more fightin', 
The on'y chance thet 's left to me is politics or writin' ; 
Kow, ez the people 's gut to hev a milingtary man. 
An' I ain't nothin' else jest now, I 've hit upon a plan ; 
The can'idatin' line, you know, 'ould suit me to a T, 
An' ef I lose, 't wunt hurt my ears to lodge another 

flea ; 
So I '11 set up ez can'idate fer any kin' o' office, 
(I mean fer any thet includes good easy-cheers an' 

soffies ; 
Fer ez to runnin' fer a place ware work 's the time o* 

day. 
You know thet 's wut I never did, — except the other 

way;) 
Ef it ^s the Presidential cheer fer wich I 'd better rnn^ 



THE BIGLOW PAPERS. 127 

Wut two legs any wares about could keep up with my 

one ? 
There ain't no kin' o' quality in can'idates, it 's said, 
So useful ez a wooden leg, — except a wooden head ; 
There's nothin' ain't so poppylar — (wy, it 's a parfect sin 
To think wut Mexico hez paid fer Santy Anny's pin ;) — 
Then I hain't gut no principles, an', sence I wuz knee- 
high, 
I never did hev any gret, ez you can testify ; 
I'm decided peace-man, tu, an' go agin the war, — 
Fer now the hoU on 't 's gone an' past, wut is there to 

go /or? 
Ef, wile you 're 'lectioneerin' round, some curus chaps 

should beg 
To know my views o' state affairs, jest answer wooden" 

LEG ! 

Ef they ain't settisfied with thet, an' kin' o' pry an' 
doubt 

An' ax fer sutthin' deffynit, jest say oke eye put out ! 

Thet kin' o' talk I guess you '11 find '11 answer to a 
charm. 

An' wen you 're druv tu nigh the wall, hoi' up my miss- 
in' arm ; 

Ef they should nose round fer a pledge, put on a 
vartoous look 

An' tell 'em thet 's precisely wut I never gin nor — took ! 

Then you can call me ^^ Timbertoes," — that's wut the 

people likes ; 
Sutthin' combinin' morril truth with phrases sech ez 

strikes ; 
Some say the people 's fond o' this, or thet, or wut you 

please,—' 



128 THE BIGLOW PAPERS. 

I tell ye wut the people want is jest correct idees ; 

^^ Old Timbertoes/' you see, 's, a creed it 's safe to be 
quite bold on, 

Ther 's nothin' in 't the other side can any ways git 
hold on ; 

It 's a good tangible idee, a sutthin' to embody 

Thet valooable class o' men who look thru brandy- 
toddy ; 

It gives a Party Platform, tu, jest level with the mind 

Of all right-thinkin', honest folks thet mean to go it 
blind ; 

Then there air other good hooraws to dror on ez you 
need ''em, 

Sech ez the oke-eyed Slakterer, the bloody Birdo- 

FREDUM : 

Them 's wut takes hold o' folks thet think, ez well ez o' 

the masses. 
An' makes you sartin o' the aid o^ good men of all 

classes. 

There 's one thing I 'm in doubt about ; in order to be 

Presidunt, 
It 's absolutely ne'ssary to be a Southern residunt ; 
The Constitution settles thet, an' also thet a feller 
Must own a nigger o' some sort, jet black, or brown, or 

yeller. 
Now I hain't no objections agin particklar climes. 
Nor agin ownin' anythin' (except the truth sometimes), 
But, ez I hain't no capital, up there among ye, may be. 
You might raise funds enough fer me to buy a low- 
priced baby, 
An' then, to suit the No'thern folks, who feel obleeged 
to say 



THE BIGLOW PAPERS. 129 

They hate an' cuss the very thing they vote fer every 

day, 
Say you're assured I go full butt fer Libbaty's diffusion 
An' made the purchis on'y jest to spite the Institoo- 

tion ; — 
But, golly ! there's the currier's hoss upon the pavement 

pawin' ! 
I'll be more 'xplicit in my next. 
Yourn, 

BIRDOFREDUM SAWIN. 

[We have now a tolerably fair chance of estimating 
how the balance-sheet stands between our returned 
volunteer and glory. Supposing the entries to be set 
down on both sides of the account in fractional parts 
of one hundred, we shall arrive at something like the 
following result : — 

Cr. B. Sawin, Esq., in account with (Blank) Glory. Dr. 
By loss of one leg, . . 20 To one 675th three cheers in 

do. one arm, . 15 Faneuil Hall, ... 30 
do. four fingers, . 5 " do. do. on 

do. One eye, . 10 occasion of presentation of 
the breaking of six ribs, 6 sword to Colonel Wright, 25 
having served under " one suit of gray clothes 
Colonel Gushing one (ingeniously unbecoming), 15 

month, 44 " musical entertainments 

(drum and fife six months), 5 
" one dinner after return, 1 
" chance of pension, . 1 
** privilege of drawing long- 
bow during rest of natural 
life, 23 



100 100 



E. E. 
9 



130 THE BIGLOW PAPERS, 

It would appear that Mr. Sawin found the actual 
feast curiously the reverse of the bill of fare advertised 
ill Faneuil Hall and other places. His primary object 
seems to have been the making of his fortune. Quce- 
renda pecunia primum, virtus post nummos. He hoisted 
sail for Eldorado, and shipwrecked on Point Tribula- 
tion. Qu id non mortalia p)ectora cogis auri sacra fames 9 
The speculation has sometimes crossed my mind, in that 
dreary interval of drought which intervenes between 
quarterly stipendiary showers, that Providence, by the 
creation of a money-tree, might have simplified wonder- 
fully the sometimes perplexing problem of human life. 
We read of bread-trees, the butter for which lies ready- 
churned in Irish bogs. Milk-trees we are assured of in 
South America, and stout Sir John Hawkins testifies 
to water-trees in the Canaries. Boot-trees bear abun- 
dantly in Lynn and elsewhere ; and I have seen, in the 
entries of the wealthy, hat-trees with a fair show of 
fruit. A family-tree I once cultivated myself, and 
found therefrom but a scanty yield, and that quite 
tasteless and innutritions. Of trees bearing men we 
are not without examples ; as those in the park of Louis 
the Eleventh of France. Who has forgotten, moreover, 
that olive-tree, growing in the Athenian's back-garden 
with its strange uxorious crop, for the general propa- 
gation of which, as of a new and precious variety, the 
philosopher Diogenes, hitherto uninterested in arbori- 
culture, was so zealous ? In the sylva of our own 
Southern States, the females of my family have called 
my attention to the china-tree. Not to multiply ex- 
amples, I will barely add to my list the birch-tree, in 
the smaller branches of which has been implanted so 
miraculous a virtue for communicating the Latin and 



THE BIGLOW PAPERS. 131 

Greek languages, and which may well, therefore, be 
classed among the trees producing necessaries of life, — 
venerabiU donum fatalis virgce. That money-trees ex- 
isted in the golden age there want not prevalent reasons 
for our believing. For does not the old proverb, when 
it asserts that money does not grow on ez^cr^/bush, imply 
a fortiori that there were certain bushes which did 
produce it ? Again, there is another ancient saw to 
the effect that money is the root of all evil. From 
which two adages it may be safe to infer that the afore- 
said species of tree first degenerated into a shrub, then 
absconded underground, and finally, in our iron age, 
vanished altogether. In favorable exposures it may be 
conjectured that a specimen or two survived to a great 
age, as in the garden of the Hesperides ; and, indeed, 
what else could that tree in the Sixth ^neid have been, 
with a branch whereof the Trojan hero procured ad- 
mission to a territory, for the entering of which money 
is a surer passport than to a certain other more profit- 
able (too) foreign kingdom ? Whether these specula- 
tions of mine have any force in them, or whether they 
will not rather, by most readers, be deemed impertinent 
to the matter in hand, is a question which I leave to 
the determination of an indulgent posterity. That 
there were, in more primitive and happier times, shops 
where money was sold, — and that, too, on credit and at 
a bargain, — I take to be matter of demonstration. For 
what but a dealer in this article was that ^olus who 
supplied Ulysses with motive power for his fleet in 
bags ? What that Ericus, king of Sweden, who is said 
to have kept the winds in his cap ? What, in more 
recent times, those Lapland Nomas who traded in 
favorable breezes ? All which will appear the more 



132 THE BIGLOW PAPERS. 

clearly when we consider, that, even to this day, rais- 
iiig the wind is proverbial for raising money, and that 
brokers and banks were invented by the Venetians at a 
later period. 

And now for the imi^rovement of this digression. I 
find a parallel to Mr. Sawin's fortune in an adventure 
of my own. For, shortly after I had first broached to 
myself the before-stated natural-historical and archaeo- 
logical theories, as I was passing, lime neyotia peiuUis 
mecum revolvens, through one of the obscure suburbs of 
our New England metropolis, my eye was attracted by 
these words upon a signboard, — Cheap Cash-Store. 
Here was at once the confirmation of my speculations, 
and the substance of my hopes. Here lingered the 
fragment of a happier past, or stretched out the first 
tremulous organic filament of a more fortunate future. 
Thus glowed the distant Mexico to the eyes of Sawin, 
as he looked through the dirty pane of the recruiting- 
office window, or speculated from the summit of that 
mirage-Pisgah which the imps of the bottle are so cun- 
ning in raising up. Already had my Alnaschar-fancy 
(even during that first half-believing glance) expended 
in various useful directions the funds to be obtained 
by pledging the manuscript of a proposed volume of 
discourses. Already did a clock ornament the tower 
of the Jaalam meeting-house, a gift appropriately, but 
modestly, commemorated in the parish and town 
records, both, for now many years, kept by myself. 
Already had my son Seneca completed his course at the 
University. Whether, for the moment, we may not be 
considered as actually lording it over those Baratarias 
with the viceroyalty of which Hope invests us, and 
whether we are ever so warmly housed as in our Span- 



THE BIGLOW PAPERS. 133 

ish castles, would afford matter of argument. Enough 
that I found that signboard to be no other than a bait 
to the trap of a decayed grocer. Nevertheless, I bought 
a pound of dates (getting short weight by reason of im- 
mense flights of harpy flies who pursued and lighted 
upon their prey even in the very scales), which pur- 
chase I made, not only with an eye to the little ones at 
home, but also as a figurative reproof of that too fre- 
quent habit of my mind, which, forgetting the due order 
of chronology, will often persuade me that the happy 
sceptre of Saturn is stretched over this Astraea-forsaken 
nineteenth century. 

Having glanced at the ledger of Glory under the title 
Saivin, i?., let us extend our investigations, and dis- 
cover if that instructive volume does not contain some 
charges more personally interesting to ourselves. I 
think we should be more economical of our resources, 
did we thoroughly appreciate the fact, that, whenever 
Brother Jonathan seems to be thrusting his hand into 
his own pocket, he is, in fact, picking ours. I confess 
that the late muck which the country has been running 
has materially changed my views as to the best method 
of raising revenue. If, by means of direct taxation, 
the bills for every extraordinary outlay were brought 
under our immediate eye, so that, like thrifty house- 
keepers, we could see Avhere and how fast the money 
was going, we should be less likely to commit extrava- 
gances. At present, these things are managed in such 
a hugger-mugger way, that we know not what we pay 
for ; the poor man is charged as much as the rich ; 
and, while we are saving and scrimping at the spigot, 
the government is drawing off at the bung. If we 
could know that a part of the money we expend for 



134 THE BIGLOW PAPERS. 

tea and coffee goes to buy powder and balls, and that 
it is Mexican blood which makes the clothes on our 
backs more costly, it would set some of us athinking. 
During the present fall, I have often pictured to my- 
self a government official entering my study and hand- 
ing me the following bill :— 

Washington, Sept. 30, 1848. 

Rev. Homer Wilbur to lllncle Samuel, Dr. 

To his share of work done in Mexico on partnership 

account, sundry jobs, as below, 
"killing, maiming, and wounding about 5,000 Mex- 

^^^"^' $ 2.00 

"slaughtering one woman carrying water to 

wounded, ....... iq 

"extra work on two different Sabbaths (one bom- 
bardment and one assault) whereby the Mex- 
icans were prevented from defiling "themselves 
with the idolatries of high mass, . . .3.50 

" throwing an especially fortunate and Protestant 
bombshell into the Cathedral at Vera Cruz, 
whereby several female Papists were slain at 
the altar, ....... 50 

"his proportion of cash paid for conquered terri- 

*^^:^' 1.75 

"his proportion do for conquering terri- 

to^^' 1.50 

"manuring do. with new superior compost called 



American Citizen," 



.50 



"extending the area of freedom and Protestantism, .01 



"glory, 



Immediate payment is requested. 



.01 



$9.87 



N. B. Thankful for former favors, U. S. requests a coUv 
tinuance of patronage. Orders executed with neatness and 



THE BIGLOW PAPERS. 135 

despatch. Terms as low as those of any other contractor 
for the same kind and style of work. 

[I can fancy the official answering my look of horror 
with, — " Yes, Sir, it looks like a high charge, Sir ; but 
in these days slaughtering is slaughtering/' Verily, I 
would that every one understood that it was ; for it 
goes about obtaining money under the false pretence of 
being glory. For me, I have an imagination which 
plays me uncomfortable tricks. It happens to me 
sometimes to see a slaughterer on his way home from 
his day's work, and forthwith my imagination puts a 
cocked-hat upon his head and epaulettes upon his 
shoulders, and sets him up as a candidate for the 
Presidency. So, also, on a recent public occasion, as 
the place assigned to the '^ Eeverend Clergy" is just 
behind that of '^ Officers of the Army and Kavy " in 
processions, it was my fortune to be seated at the din- 
ner-table over against one of these respectable persons. 
He was arrayed as (out of his own profession) only kings, 
court-officers, and footmen are in Europe, and Indians 
in America. Now what does my over-officious imagi- 
nation but set to work upon him, strip him of his gay 
livery, and present him to me coatless, his trowsers 
thrust into the tops of a pair of boots thick with clotted 
blood, and a basket on his arm out of which lolled a 
gore-smeared axe, thereby destroying my relish for the 
temporal mercies upon the board before me ? — H. W.] 



No. IX. 

A THIRD LETTER FROM B. SAWIN, Esq. 

[Upois' the following letter slender comment will be 
needful. In what river Selemnns has Mr. Sawin 
bathed, that he has become so swiftly oblivious of his 
fomer loves ? From an ardent and (as befits a soldier) 
confident wooer of that coy bride, the popular favor, 
we see him subside of a sudden into the (I trust not 
jilted) Cincinnatus, returning to his plough with a 
goodly-sized branch of willow in his hand ; figuratively 
returning, however, to a figurative plough, and from 
no profound affection for that honored implement of 
husbandry, (for which, indeed, Mr. Sawin never dis- 
played any decided predilection.) but in order to be 
gracefully summoned therefrom to more congenial 
labors. It would seem that the character of the an- 
cient Dictator had become part of the recognized stock 
of our modern political comedy, though, as our term of 
office extends to a quadrennial length, the parallel is 
not so minutely exact as could be desired. It is suffi- 
ciently so, however, for purposes of scenic representa- 
tion. An humble cottage (if built of logs, the better) 
forms the Arcadian background of the stage. This 
rustic paradise is labelled Ashland, Jaalam, North 
Bend, Marshfield, Kinderhook, or Baton Rouge, as 

occasion demands. Before the door stands a something 
136 



THE BIGLOW PAPERS. 137 

with one handle (the other painted in proper perspec- 
tive), which represents, in happy ideal vagueness, the 
plough. To this the defeated candidate rushes with 
delirious joy, welcomed as a father by appropriate 
groups of happy laborers, or from it the successful one 
is torn with difficulty, sustained alone by a noble 
sense of public duty. Only I have observed, that, if 
the scene be laid at Baton Rouge or Ashland, the 
laborers are kept carefully in the background, and are 
heard to shout from behind the scenes in a singular 
tone resembling ululation, and accompanied by a sound 
not unlike vigorous clapping. This, however, may be 
artistically in keeping with the habits of the rustic 
population of those localities. The precise connection 
between agricultural pursuits and statesmanship I have 
not been able, after diligent inquiry, to discover. But, 
that my investigations may not be barren of all fruit, I 
will mention one curious statistical fact, which I con- 
sider thoroughly established, namely, that no real 
farmer ever attains practically beyond a seat in General 
Court, however theoretically qualified for more exalted 
station. 

It is probable that some other prospect has been 
opened to Mr. Sawin, and that he has not made this 
great sacrifice without some definite understanding in 
regard to a seat in the cabinet or a foreign mission. 
It may be supposed that we of Jaalam were not un- 
touched by a feeling of villatic pride in beholding our 
townsman occupying so large a space in the public eye. 
And to me, deeply revolving the qualifications necessary 
to a candidate in these frugal times, those of Mr. S. 
seemed peculiarly adapted to a successful campaign. 
The loss of a leg, an arm, an eye, and four fingers, 



138 THE BIGLOW PAPERS. 

reduced him so nearly to the condition of a voxetprm^ 
terea nihil, that I could think of nothing but the loss 
of his head by which his chance could have been bet- 
tered. But since he has chosen to balk our suffrages, 
we must content ourselves with what we can get, re- 
membering lactucas non esse dandas, dum cardui mifi. 
ciant.~R. W. ] "^ 

I SPOSE you recollect thet I explained my gennle views 
In the last billet thet I writ, Vay down from Veery 

Cruze, 
Jest arter I 'd a kind o' ben spontanously sot up 
To run unanimously fer the Presidential cup ; 
0' course it worn't no wish o' mine, 't wuz ferflely dis- 

tressin,' 
But poppiler enthusiasm gut so almighty pressin' 
Thet, though like sixty all along I fumed an' fussed an' 

sorrered. 

There did n't seem no ways to stop their bringin' on me 
f orrerd : 

Fact is, they udged the matter so, I could n't help ad- 
mittin' 

The Father o' his Country's shoes no feet but mine 

'ould fit in, 
Besides the savin' o' the soles fer ages to succeed, 
Seein' thet with one wannut foot, a pair 'd be more 'n I 

need ; 

An', tell ye wut, them shoes '11 want a thund'rin' sight 

o' patchin', 
'Ef this ere fashion is to last we 've gut into o* hatchin' 
A pair o' second Washintons fer every new election,— 
Though, fur ez number one 's consarned, I don't make 

no objection. 



THE BIGLOW PAPERS. I39 

I wuz agoin^ on to say thet wen at fust I saw 

The masses would stick to 't I wuz the Country's father- 

'n-law, 
(They would ha' hed it Father, but I told 'em 't would 

n't du, 
Ooz thet wuz sutthin' of a sort they could n't split in tu, 
An' Washinton hed hed the thing laid fairly to his 

door, 
Nor dars n't say 't worn't his'n, much ez sixty year 

afore, ) 
But 't ain't no matter ez to thet ; wen I wuz nomer- 

nated, 
'T worn't natur but wut I should feel consid'able elated. 
An' wile the hooraw o' the thing wuz kind 0' noo an' 

fresh, 
I thought our ticket would ha' caird the country with a 

resh. 



Sence I 've come hum, though, an' looked round, I think 
I seem to find 

Strong argimunts ez thick ez fleas to make me change 
my mind ; 

It's clear to any one whose brain ain't fur gone in a 
phthisis, 

Thet hail Columby's happy land is goin' thru a crisis. 

An' 't would n't noways du to hev the people's mind 
distracted 

By bein' all to once by sev'ral pop'lar names attackted ; 

'T would save holl haycartloads 0' fuss an' three four 
months 0' jaw, 

Ef some illustrous paytriot should back out an' with- 
draw ; 



140 THE BIGLOW PAPERS. 

So, ez I ain't a crooked stick, jest like — like ole (I 

swow, 
I dunno ez I know his name) — I ^11 go back to my 

plough. 
Now, 't ain't no more 'n is proper 'n' right in sech a 

sitooation 
To hint the course you think '11 be the savin' o' the 

nation ; 
To funk right out o' p'lit'cal strife ain't thought to be 

the thing. 
Without you deacon off the toon you want your folks 

should sing ; 
So I edvise the noomrous friends thet's in one boat 

with me 
To jest up killock, jam right down their helium hard 

a lee, 
Haul the sheets taut, an', laying out upon the Suthun 

tack, 
Make f er the safest port they can, wich, / think, is Ole 

Zack. 
Next thing you'll want to know, I spose, wut argi- 

munts I seem 
To see that makes me think this ere '11 be the strong- 
est team ; 
Fust place, I've ben consid'ble round in barrooms an' 

saloons 
Agethrin' public sentiment, 'mongst Demmercrats and 

Coons, 
An' 't ain't ve'y off en thet I meet a chap but wut goes 

in 
Fer Eough an' Ready, fair an' square, hufs, taller, 

horns, an' skin ; 
I don't deny but wut, fer one, ez fur ez I could see. 



THE BIGLOW PAPERS. 141 

I didn't like at fust the Pheladelphy nomernee ; 
I could ha"* pinted to a man thet wuz, I guess, a peg 
Higher than him, — a soger, tu, an' with a wooden leg ; 
But every day with more an' more 0' Taylor zeal I 'm 

burnin', 
Seein' wich way the tide thet sets to office is aturnin' ; 
Wy, into Beller's we notched the votes down on three 

sticks, — 
'T wuz Birdofredum 07ie, Cass anglit, an' Taylor tweyity- 

six, 
An', bein' the on'y canderdate thet wuz upon the 

ground. 
They said 't wuz no more 'n right thet I should pay 

the drinks all round ; 
Ef I'd expected sech a trick, I would n't ha' cut my 

foot 
By goin' an' votin' fer myself like a consumed coot : 
It did n't make no diff'rence, though ; I wish I may be 

cust, 
Ef Bellers wuz n't slim enough to say he would n't 

trust ! 

Another pint thet influences the minds 0' sober jedges 
Is thet the Gin'ral hez n't gut tied hand an' foot with 

pledges ; 
He hez n't told ye wut he is, an' so there ain't no 

knowin' 
But wut he may turn out to be the best there is agoin'; 
This, at the on'y spot thet pinched, the shoe directly 

eases, 
Coz every one is free to 'xpect percisely wut he pleases : 
I want free-trade ; you don't ; the Gin'ral is n^t bound 

to neither ; — 



142 THE BIGLOW PAPERS. 

I vote my way ; you, yonrn ; an' both air sooted to a 

T there. 
Ole Rongh an' Ready, tu, 's a Wig, but without bein^ 

ultry 
(He's like a holsome hayinday, thet 's warm, but is n't 

sultry) ; 
He 's jest wut I should call myself, a kin' o' scratch, ez 

't ware, 
Thet ain't exactly all a wig nor wholly your own 

hair ; 
I've ben a Wig three weeks myself, jest o' this mod'rate 

sort. 
An' don't find them an' Demmercrats so different ez I 

thought ; 
They both act pooty much alike, an' push an' scrouge 

an' cus ; 
They 're like two pickpockets in league for Uncle Sam- 
well's pns ; 
Each takes a side, an' then they squeeze the old man in 

between 'em. 
Turn all his pockets wrong side out an' quick ez light- 

nin' clean 'em ; 
To nary one on em I 'd trust a secon'-handed rail 
No furder off 'an I could sling a bullock by the tail. 
Webster sot matters right in thet air Mashfiel' speech 

o' his'n ; — 
*^ Taylor," sez he, '' ain't nary ways the one thet I'd a 

chizzen, 
Nor he ain't fittin' fer the place, an' like ez not he ain't 
No more 'n a tough ole bullethead, an' no gret of a 

saint ; 
But then," sez he, ^^ obsarve my pint, he's jest ez good 

to vote fer 



THE BIGLOW PAPERS. 143 

Ez though the greasin' on him worn't a thing to hire 

Choate fer ; 
Ain't it ez easy done to drop a ballot in a box 
Fer one ez 't is fer t'other, fer the bulldog ez the fox ? " 
It takes a mind like Dannel's, fact, ez big ez all ou' 

doors. 
To find out thet it looks like rain arter it fairly pours ; 
I 'gree with him, it ain't so dreffle troublesome to 

vote 
Fer Taylor arter all,— it 's jest to go an' change your 

coat ; 
Wen he 's once greased, you'll swaller him an' never 

know on 't, source. 
Unless he scratches, goin' down, with them air G-in'ral's 

spurs. 
I've ben a votin' Demmercrat, ez reg'lar ez a clock. 
But don't find goin' Taylor gives my narves no gret 'f a 

shock ; 
Truth is, the cutest leadin' Wigs, ever sence fust they 

found 
Wich side the bread gut buttered on, hev kep a edgin' 

round ; 
They kin' o' slipt the planks frum out th' ole platform 

one by one 
An' made it gradooally noo, 'fore folks know'd wut wuz 

done. 
Till, fur 'z I know, there ain't an inch thet I could lay 

my han' on. 
But I, or any Demmercrat, feels comf'table to stan' on. 
An' ole Wig doctrines act'lly look, their occ'pants bein' 

gone, ^ 

Lonesome ez staddles on a mash without no hayricks 

on. 



144 THE BIGLOW PAPERS. 

I spose it 's time now I shall give my thoughts upon the 

plan, 
Thet chipped the shell at Buffalo, o^ settin' up ole 

Van. 
I used to vote fer Martin, but, I swan, I 'm clean dis- 
gusted, — 
He ain't the man thet I can say is fittin' to be trusted ; 
He ain^t half antislav'ry ^nough, nor I ain't sure, ez some 

be. 
He 'd go in fer abolishin* the Deestrick o^ Columby ; 
An', now I come to recollect, it kin' o' makes me 

sick 'z 
A horse, to think o' wut he wuz in eighteen thirty-six. 
An' then, another thing ; — 1 guess, though mebby I am 

wrong. 
This Buff'lo plaster ain't agoin^ to dror almighty 

strong ; 
Some folks, I know, hev gut th' idee thet No'thun dough 

'11 rise. 
Though, 'fore I see it riz an' baked, I would n't trust 

my eyes ; 
'T will take more emptins, a long chalk, than this noo 

party 's gut, 
To give sech heavy cakes ez them a start, I tell ye 

wut. 
But even ef they caird the day, there would n't be no 

endurin' 
To stand upon a platform with sech critters ez Van 

Buren ; — 
An' his son John, tu, I can't think how thet air chap 

should dare 
To speak ez he doos ; wy, they say he used to cuss an' 

swear ! 



THE BIGLOW PAPERS. 145 

I spose he never read the hymn thet tells how down the 

stairs 
A feller with long legs wnz throwed thet would n't say 

his prayers. 

This brings me to another pint : the leaders o' the party 
Ain^t jest sech men ez I can act along with free an 

hearty ; 
They ain't not quite respectable, an' wen a feller's mor- 

rils 
Don't toe the straightest kin' o' mark, wy, him an' me 

jest quarrils. 
I went to a free soil meetin' once, an' wut d' ye think 

I see ? 
A feller wuz aspoutin' there thet act'lly come to me, 
About two year ago last spring, ez nigh ez I can jedge, 
An' axed me ef I didn't want to sign the Temprunce 

pledge ! 
He 's one o' them thet goes about an' sez you hed n't 

ough' to 
Drink nothin', mornin', noon, or night, stronger 'an 

Taunton water. 
There 's one rule I 've ben guided by, in settlin' how 

to vote, oilers, — 
I take the side thet is n't took by them consarned tee- 
totallers. 

Ez f er the niggers, I 've ben South, an' thet hez changed 

my mind ; 
A lazier, more ungrateful set you could n't nowers 

find. 
You know I mentioned in my last thet I should buy a 

nigger, 

10 



146 THE BIGLOW PAPERS. 

Ef I could make a purchase at a pooty moderate fig- 

ger ; 
So, ez there ^s nothin' in the world I ^m fonder of 'an 

gunnin'', 
I closed a bargin finally to take a feller runnm^ 
I shou'dered queen's-arm an' stumped out, an' wen I 

come t' th' swamp, 
'T worn't very long afore I gut upon the nest o' Pomp ; 
I come acrost a kin' o ' hut, an', playin' round the door, 
Some little woolly-headed cubs, ez many 'z six or more. 
At fust I thought o' firin', but thi7ih twice is safest 

oilers ; 
There ain't, thinks I, not one on 'em but 's wuth his 

twenty dollars, 
Or would be, ef I hed 'em back into a Christian land, — 
How temptin' all on 'em would look upon an auction- 
stand! 
(Not but wut / hate Slavery in th' abstract, stem to 

starn, — 
I leave it ware our fathers did, a privit State consarn.) 
Soon 'z they see me, they yelled an' run, but Pomp wuz 

out ahoein' 
A leetle patch o' corn he hed, or else there ain 't no 

knowin' 
He would n't ha' took a pop at me ; but I hed gut the 

start. 
An' wen he looked, I vow he groaned ez though he 'd 

broke his heart ; 
He done it like a wite man, tu, ez nat'ral ez a pictur. 
The imp'dunt, pis'nous hypocrite ! wus 'an a boy con- 

strictur. 
^' You can't gum 7ne, I tell ye now, an' so you need n't 

try, 



THE BIGLOW PAPERS. I47 

I ^xpect my eye-teeth every mail so jest sliet up/' sez I. 
^' Don't go to actin' ugly now, or else I '11 jest let strip, 
You 'd best draw kindly, seein' 'z how I 've gut ye on 

the hip ; 
Besides, you darned ole fool, it ain't no gret of a dis- 
aster 
To be benev'lently druv back to a contented master. 
Ware you hed Christian priv'ledges you don't seem 

quite aware of. 
Or you 'd ha' never run away from bein' well took care 

of; 
Ez fer kin' treatment, wy, he wuz so fond on ye, he said 
He 'd give a fifty spot right out, to git ye, 'live or dead ; 
Wite folks ain't sot by half ez much ; 'member I run 

away. 
Wen I wuz bound to Cap'n Jakes, to Mattysqumscot bay; 
Don' know him, likely ? Spose not ; wal, the mean ole 

codger went 
An' oifered — wut reward, think? Wal, it worn 't no less 

'n a cent." 



Wal, I jest gut 'em into line, an druv 'em on afore me, 
The pis'nous brutes, I 'd no idee 0' the ill-will they bore 

me ; 
We walked till som'ers about noon, an' then it grew so 

hot 
I thought it best to camp awile, so I chose out a spot 
Jest under a magnoly tree, an' there right down I sot ; 
Then I unstrapped my wooden leg, coz it begun to 

chafe. 
An' laid it down jest by my side, supposin' all wuz safe ; 
I made my darkies all set down around me in a ring. 



148 THE BIGLOW PAPERS. 

An' sot an' kin' o' ciphered up how much the lot would 

bring ; 
But, wile I drinked the peaceful cup of a pure heart 

an' mind, 
(Mixed with some wiskey, now an' then,) Pomp he 

snaked up behind, 
An', creepin, grad'lly close tu, ez quiet ez a mink. 
Jest grabbed my leg, and then pulled foot, quicker 'an 

yoa could wink, 
An', come to look, they each on 'em hed gut behin' a 

tree. 
An' Pomp poked out the leg a piece, jest so ez I could 

see. 
An' yelled to me to throw away my pistils an' my gun. 
Or else thet they 'd cair off the leg an' fairly cut the run. 
I vow I didn 't b'lieve there wuz a decent alligatur 
Thet hed a heart so destitoot o' common human natur ; 
However, ez there worn't no help, I finally give in 
An, heft my arms away to git my leg safe back agin. 
Pomp gethered all the weapins up, an' then he come 

an' grinned. 
He showed his ivory some, I guess, an' sez, " You 're 

fairly pinned ; 
Jest buckle on your leg agin, an' git right up an' come, 
'T wun 't du fer fammerly men like me to be so long 

from hum." 
At fust I put my foot right down an' swore I would n't 

budge. 
"Jest ez you choose," sez he, quite cool, " either be 

shot or trudge." 
So this black-hearted monster took an' act'lly druv me, 

back 
Along the very feet marks o' my happy mornin' track 



THE BIGLOW PAPERS. 149 

An' kep* me prisoner 'bout six months, an' worked me, 

tu, like sin. 
Till I hed gut his corn an' his Carliny taters in ; 
He made me larn him readin', tu, (although the crittur 

saw 
How much it hut my morril sense to act agin the law,) 
So 'st he could read a Bible he 'd gut ; an' axed ef I 

could pint 
The North Star out ; hut there I put his nose some 

out o' jint, 
Fer I weeled roun' about sou'west, an', lookin' up a bit. 
Picked out a middlin' shiny one an' tole him thet wuz it. 
Fin'lly, he took me to the door, an', givin' me a kick, 
Sez — ^^ Ef you know wut 's best for ye, be off, now, 

double-quick ; 
The winter-time 's a comin' on, an', though I gut ye 

cheap. 
You 're so darned lazy, I don't think you 're hardly 

wuth your keep ; 
Besides, the childrin 's growin' up, an' you ain't jest 

the model 
I 'd like to hev 'em immertate, an' so you 'd better 

toddle!" 

Now is there any thin' on airth '11 ever prove to me 
Thet renegader slaves like him air fit fer bein' free ? 
D' you think they '11 suck me in to jine the Buff'lo 

chaps, an' them 
Kank infidels thet go agin the Scriptur'l cus o' Shem ? 
Not by a jugf all ! sooner 'n thet, I 'd go thru fire an' 

water ; 
Wen I hev once made up my mind, a meet'nhus ain't 

setter ; 



150 THE BIGLOW PAPERS. 

No, not though all the crows thet flies to pick my bones 

wnz cawin' — 
I guess we ^re in a Christian land, — 
Yourn, 

BIRDOFREDUM SAWIN. 

[Here, patient reader, we take leave of each other, I 
trust with some mutual satisfaction. I seiypdiient, for I 
love not that kind which skims dippingly over the sur- 
face of the page, as swallows over a pool before rain. 
By such no pearls shall be gathered. But if no pearls 
there be (as, indeed the world is not without example of 
books wherefrom the longest-winded diver shall bring 
up no more than his proper handful of mud), yet let us 
hope that an oyster or two may reward adequate perse- 
verance. If neither pearls nor oysters, yet is patience 
itself a gem worth diving deeply for. 

It may seem to some that too much space has been 
usurped by my own private lucubrations, and some may 
be fain to bring against me that old jest of him who 
preached all his hearers out of the meeting-house save 
only the sexton, who, remaining for yet a little space, 
from a sense of official duty, at last gave out also, and, 
presenting the keys, humbly requested our preacher to 
lock the doors, when he should have wholly relieved 
himself of his testimony. I confess to a satisfaction in 
the self act of preaching, nor do I esteem a discourse to 
be wholly thrown away even upon a sleeping or unintel- 
ligent auditory. I cannot easily believe that the Gos- 
pel of Saint John, which Jacques Cartier ordered to be 
read in the Latin tongue to the Canadian savages, upon 
his first meeting with them, fell altogether upon stony 
ground. For the earnestness of the preacher is a sermon 



THE BIGLOW PAPERS. 151 

appreciable by dullest intellects and most alien ears. 
In this wise did Episcopius convert many to his opin- 
ions, who yet understood not the language in which he 
discoursed. The chief thing is, that the messenger be- 
lieve that he has an authentic message to deliver. For 
counterfeit messengers that mode of treatment which 
Father John de Piano Carpini relates to have prevailed 
among the Tartars would seem effectual, and, perhaps, 
deserved enough. For my own part, I may lay claim to 
so much of the spirit of martyrdom as would have led 
me to go into banishment with those clergymen whom 
Alphonso the Sixth of Portugal drave out of his king- 
dom for refusing to shorten their pulpit eloquence. It 
is possible, that, having been invited into my brother 
Biglow^s desk, I may have been too little scrupulous in 
using it for the venting of my own peculiar doctrines to 
a congregation drawn together in the expectation and 
with the desire of hearing him. 

I am not wholly unconscious of a peculiarity of mental 
organization which impels me, like the railroad-engine 
with its train of cars, to run backward for a short distance 
in order to obtain a fairer start. I may compare myself 
to one fishing from the rocks when the sea runs high, 
who, misinterjoreting the suction of the undertow for the 
biting of some larger fish, jerks suddenly, and finds that 
hehas caugJit I)oito?n, hauling in upon the end of his line 
a trail of various aigm, among which, nevertheless, the 
naturalist may haply find somewhat to repay the dis- 
appointment of the angler. Yet have I conscientiously 
endeavored to adapt myself to the impatient temper of 
the age, daily degenerating more and more from the 
high standard of our pristine New England. To the 
catalogue of lost arts I would mournfully add also that 



152 THE BIGLOW PAPERS. 

of listening to two-hour sermons. Surely we have been 
abridged into a race of pigmies. For, truly, in those 
of the old discourses yet subsisting to us in print, the 
endless spinal column of divisions and subdivisions can 
be likened to nothing so exactly as to the vertebrae of the 
saurians, whence the theorist may conjecture a race of 
Anakim proportionate to the withstanding of these other 
monsters. I say Anakim rather than Nephelim, because 
there seem reasons for supposing that the race of those 
whose heads (though no giants) are constantly enveloped 
in clouds (which that name imports) will never become 
extinct. The attempt to vanquish the innumerable 
heads of one of those aforementioned discourses may 
supply us with a plausible interpretation of the second 
labor of Hercules, and his successful experiment with 
fire affords us a useful precedent. 

But while I lament the degeneracy of the age in this 
regard, I cannot refuse to succumb to its influence. 
Looking out through my study window, I see Mr. Big- 
low at a distance busy in gathering his Baldwins, of 
which, to judge by the number of barrels lying about 
under the trees, his crop is more abundant than my own, 
— by which sight I am admonished to turn to those 
orchards of the mind wherein my labors may be more 
prospered, and apply myself diligently to the prepara- 
tion of my next Sabbath's discourse. — H. W.] 



A FABLE FOR CRITICS. 



Reader ! walk up at once {it will soon be too late) and buy at 
a perfectly ruinous rate 



FABLE FOE CRITICS; 

OR, BETTER, 

(/ like, as a thing that the reader's first fancy may strike, an 

old fashioned title-page, 

such as presents a tabular view of the volumes contents.) 

A GLANCE 

AT A FEW OF OUR LITERARY PROGENIES 

{Mrs. Malaprofs word.) 

FROM 

THE TUB OF DIOGENES; 
A VOCAL AND MUSICAL MEDLEY. 

THAT IS, 

A SERIES OF JOKES 

B^ H monbettul (Siuts 

who accompanies himself with a rub-a-dub-dub, full of spirit and 
grace, on the top of the tub. 

SET FOKTH IN 

October, the 2\st day, in the year '48. 
G. P. PUTNAM, BROADWAY. 



It being the commonest mode of procedure, I premise 
a few candid remarks 

To THE Reader : 

This trifle, begun to please only myself and my own 
private fancy, was laid on the shelf. But some friends, 
who had seen it, induced me, by dint of saying they 
liked it, to put it in print. That is, having come to 
that very conclusion, I consulted them when it could 
make no confusion. For, (though in the gentlest of 
ways,) they had hinted it was scarce worth the while, I 
should doubtless have printed it. 

I began it, intending a Fable, a frail, slender thing, 
rhyme-ywinged, with a sting in its tail. But, by add- 
ings and alterings not previously planned, — digressions 
chance-hatched, like birds' eggs in the sand, — and 
dawdlings to suit every whimsy's demand, (always free- 
ing the bird which I held in my hand, for the two 
perched, perhaps out of reach, in the tree,) — it grew 
by degrees to the size which you see. I was like the 
old woman that carried the calf, and my neighbors, 
like hers, no doubt, wonder and laugh, and when, my 
strained arms with their grown burthen full, I call it 
my Fable, they call it a bull. 

Having scrawled at full gallop (as far as that goes) 
in a style that is neither good verse nor bad prose, and 
being a person whom nobody knows, some people will 
say I am rather more free with my readers than it is 

157 



158 A FABLE FOR THE CRITICS. 

becoming to be, that I seem to expect them to wait on 
my leisure in following wherever I wander at pleasure, 
that, in short, I take more than a young author's law- 
ful ease, and laugh in a queer way so like Mephis- 
topheles, that the public will doubt, as they grope 
through my rhythm, if in truth I am making fun at 
them or ivith them. 

So the excellent Public is hereby assured that the 
sale of my book is already secured. For there is not a 
poet throughout the whole land, but will purchase a 
copy or two out of hand, in the fond expectation of 
being amused in it, by seeing his betters cut-up and 
abused in it. Now, I find, by a pretty exact calcula- 
tion, there are something like ten thousand bards in 
the nation, of that special variety whom the Review 
and Magazine critics call lofty and trtte, and about 
thirty thousand {this tribe is increasing) of the kinds 
who are termed full of promise and pleasiyig. The 
Public will see by a glance at this schedule, that they 
cannot expect me to be over-sedulous about courting 
tliem, since it seems I have got enough fuel made sure 
of for boiling my pot. 

As for such of our poets as find not their names men- 
tioned once in my pages, with praises or blames, let 
them SEND iiq" THEIR CARDS, without further delay, 
to my friend G. P. Putj^^am, Esquire, in Broadway, 
where a list will be kept with the strictest regard to 
the day and the hour of receiving the card. Then, 
taking them up as I chance to have time, (that is, if 
their names can be twisted in rhyme,) I will honestly 
give each his proper positioi^, at the rate of Oi^E 
author to each new edition. Thus a PREMIUM is 
offered sufiiciently high (as the magazines say when 



A FABLE FOR THE CRITICS. 159 

they tell their best lie) to induce bards to club their 
resources and buy the balance of every edition, until 
they have all of them fairly been run through the mill. 
One word to such readers (judicious and wise) as read 
books with something behind the mere eyes, of whom 
in the country, perhaps, there are two, including my- 
self, gentle reader, and you. All the characters sketched 
in this slight jeic d' esprit, though, it may be, they seem, 
here and there, rather free, and drawn from a Mephis- 
tophelian stand-point, are meant to be faithful, and that 
is the grand point, and none but an owl would feel sore 
at a rub from a jester who tells you, without any sub- 
terfuge, that he sits in Diogenes' tub. 



A FABLE FOE THE CRITICS. 



Phcebus, sitting one day in a laurel- tree's shade, 
Was reminded of Daphne, of whom it was made, 
For the god being one day too warm in his wooing. 
She took to the tree to escape his pursuing ; 
Be the cause what it might, from his offers she 

shrunk. 
And, Ginevra-like, shut herself up in a trunk ; 
And, though 't was a step into which he had driven 

her. 
He somehow or other had never forgiven her ; 
Her memory he nursed as a kind of a tonic, 
Something bitter to chew when he 'd play the Byronic, 
And I can't count the obstinate nymphs that he 

brought over, 
By a strange kind of smile he put on when he thought 

of her. 
'' My case is like Dido's," he sometimes remarked, 
*' When I last saw my love, she was fairly embark'd ; 
Let hunters from me take this saw when they need it, 
— You 're not always sure of your game when you've 

tree'd it. 
Just conceive such a change taking place in one's 

mistress ! 
II 161 



102 A FABLE FOR THE CRITICS. 

What romance would be left ? — who can flatter or 
kiss trees ? 

And for mercy's sake, how could one keep up a dia- 
logue 

With a dull wooden thing that will live and will die a 
log,— 

Not to say that the thought would forever intrude 

That you 've less chance to win her the more she is 
wood ? 

Ah ! it went to my heart, and the memory still grieves. 

To see those loved graces all taking their leaves ; 

Those charms beyond speech, so enchanting but 
now. 

As they left me forever, each making its bough ! 

If her tongue had a tang sometimes more than was 
right. 

Her new bark is worse than ten times her old bite." 



Now, Daphne, — before she was happily treeified, — 
Over all other flowers the lily had deified. 
And when she expected the god on a visit, 
('T was before he had made his intentions explicit,) 
Some buds she arranged with a vast deal of care. 
To look as if artlessly twined in her hair. 
Where they seemed, as he said, when he paid his ad- 
dresses, 
Like the day breaking through the long night of her 

tresses ; 
So, whenever he wished to be quite irresistible. 
Like a man with eight trumps in his hand at a whist- 
table, 
(I feared me at first that the rhyme was untwistable. 



A FABLE FOR THE CRITICS. 16 



o 



Though I might have lugged in an alhision to Christa- 

bel,)- 
He would take up a lily, and gloomily look in it, 
As 1 shall at the , when they cut up my book in it. 

"Well, here, after all the bad rhyme I \e been spinning, 

I 've got back at last to my story's beginning : 

Sitting there as I say, in the shade of his mistress. 

As dull as a volume of old Chester mysteries, 

Or as those puzzling specimens, which, in old histories. 

We read of his verses — the Oracles, namely, — 

(I wonder the Greeks should have swallowed them 

tamely. 
For one might bet safely whatever he has to risk. 
They were laid at his door by some ancient Miss 

Asterisk, 
And so dull that the men who retailed them out doors 
Got the ill name of ^''augurs,'"' because they were 

bores,) — 
First, he mused what the animal substance or herb is 
Would induce a moustache, for you know he 's im- 

lerhis ; 
Then he shuddered to think how his youthful posi- 
tion 
Was assailed by the age of his son the physician ; 
At some poems he glanced, had been sent to him 

lately. 
And the metre and sentiment puzzled him greatly ; 
'^ Mehercle ! I 'd make such proceedin2:s felonious, — 
Have they all of them slept in the cave of Trophonius ? 
Look well to your seat, 't is like taking an airing 
On a corduroy road, and that out of repairing ; 
It leads one, 't is true, through the primitive forest, 



16^ A FABLE FOR THE CRITICS. 

Grand natural features — but, then, one has no rest ; 
You just catch a glimpse of some ravishing distance. 
When a jolt puts the whole of it out of existence, — 
Why not use their ears, if they happen to have any ? " 
— Here the laurel-leaves murmured the name of poor 
Daphne. 

*^ 0, weep with me. Daphne,^' he sighed, '^ for you 

know it 's 
A terrible thing to be pestered with poets ! " 
But, alas, she is dumb, and the proverb holds good, 
She never will cry till she 's out of the wood ! 
What would n't I give if I never had known of her ? 
'T were a kind of relief had I something to groan over ; 
If I had but some letters of hers, now, to toss over, 
I might turn for the nonce a Byronic philosopher. 
And bewitch all the flats by bemoaning the loss of her. 
One needs something tangible though to begin on — 
A loom, as it were, for the fancy to spin on ; 
What boots all your grist ? it can never be ground 
Till the breeze makes the arms of the windmill go 

round, 
(Or, if 't is a water-mill, alter the metaphor. 
And say it won't stir, save the wheel be well wet afore. 
Or lug in some stuff about water **so dreamily," — 
It is not a metaphor, though, 't is a simile ;) 
A lily, perhaps, would set my mill agoing. 
For just at this season, I think, they are blowing. 
Here, somebody, fetch one, not very far hence 
They 're in bloom by the score, 't is but climbing a 

fence ; 
There 's a poet hard by, who does nothing but fill his 
Whole garden, from one end to t' other, with lilies ; 



A FABLE FOR THE CRITICS. 1(55 

A very good plan, were it not for satiet}^, 
One longs for a weed here and there, for variety ; 
Though a weed is no more than a flower in disguise. 
Which is seen tlirough at once, if love gives a man 
eyes. 

Now there happened to be among Phoebus's follow- 
ers, 
A gentleman, one of the omnivorous swallowers 
Who bolt every book that comes out of the press. 
Without the least question of larger or less. 
Whose stomachs are strong at the expense of their 

head, — 
For reading new books is like eating new bread. 
One can bear it at first, but by gradual steps he 
Is brought to death's door of a mental dyspepsy. 
On a previous stage of existence, our Hero 
Had ridden outside, with the glass below zero ; 
He had been, 't is a fact you may safely rely on. 
Of a very old stock a most eminent scion, — 
A stock all fresh quacks their fierce boluses ply on, 
Who stretch the new boots Earth 's unwilling to try 

on, 
Whom humbugs of all shapes and sorts keep their eye 

on. 
Whose hair 's in the mortar of every new Zion, 
Who, when whistles are dear, go directly and buy one. 
Who think slavery a crime that we must not say fie 

on, 
Who hunt, if they e'er hunt at all, with the lion, 
(Though they hunt lions also, whenever they spy one,) 
Who contrive to make every good fortune a wry one. 
And at last choose the hard bed of honor to die on, 



1(36 A FABLE FOR THE CRITICS. 

Whose pedigree traced to earth's earliest years, 
Is longer than any thing else but their ears ; — 
In short, he was sent into life with the wrong key, 
He unlocked the door, and stept forth a poor donkey. 
Though kicked and abused by his bipedal betters, 
Yet he filled no mean place in the kingdom of letters ; 
Far happier than many a literary hack. 
He bore only paper-mill rags on his back ; 
(For it makes a vast difference which side the mill 
One expends on the paper his labor and skill ;) 
So, when his soul waited a new transmigration, 
And Destiny balanced 'twixt this and that station, 
Not having much time to expend upon bothers, 
Eemembering he 'd had some connections with authors, 
And considering his four legs had grown paralytic, — 
She set him on too, and he came forth a critic. 

Through his babyhood no kind of pleasure he took 
In any amusement but tearing a book ; 
For him there was no intermediate stage. 
From babyhood up to strait-laced middle age ; 
There were years when he did n't wear coat-tails 

behind. 
But a boy he could never be rightly defined ; 
Like the Irish Good Folk, though in length scarce a 

span. 
From the womb he came gravely, a little old man ; 
While other boys' trousers demanded the toil 
Of the motherly fingers on all kinds of soil, 
Eed, yellow, brown, black, clayey, gravelly, loamy. 
He sat in a corner and read Viri Eom^e. 
He never was known to unbend or to revel once 
In base, marbles, hockey, or kick up the devil once ; 



A FABLE FOR THE CRITICS. 167 

He was just one of those who excite the benevolence 
Of old prigs who sound the souFs depths with a 

ledger J 
And are on the look out for some young men to 

^' edger- 
-cate," as fliey call it, who won't be too costly. 
And who ^11 afterward take to the ministry mostly ; 
Who always wear spectacles, always look bilious. 
Always keep on good terms with each materfamilias 
Throughout the whole parish, and manage to rear 
Ten boys like themselves, on four hundred a year ; 
Who, fulfilling in turn the same fearful conditions. 
Either preach through their noses, or go upon missions. 

In this way our hero got safely to College, 
Where he bolted alike both his commons and knowl- 
edge ; 
A reading-machine, always wound up and going. 
He mastered whatever was not worth the knowing, 
Appeared in a gown, and a vest of black satin, 
To spout such a Gothic oration in Latin, 
That Tully could never have made out a word in it, 
(Though himself was the model the author preferred 

in it,) 
And grasping the parchment which gave him in fee. 
All the mystic and so-forths contained in A. B., 
He was launched (life is always compared to a sea,) 
With just enough learning, and skill for the using it. 
To prove he 'd a brain, by forever confusing it. 
So worthy Saint Benedict, piously burning 
With the holiest zeal against secular learning, 
Nesciensque scienter, as writers express it, 
Indoctusque sapienter d Roma recessU, 



168 A FABLE FOR THE CRITICS. 

^T would be endless to tell yon the things that he 

knew, 
All separate facts, undeniably true. 
But with him or each other they M nothing to do ; 
No power of combining, arranging, discerning, 
Digested the masses he learned into learning ; 
There was one thing in life he had practical knowledge 

for, 
(And, this you will think, he need scarce go to college 

for,) 
Not a deed would he do, not a word would he uttsr, 
Till heM weighed its relations to plain bread and 

butter. 
When he left Alma Mater, he practised his wits 
In compiling the journals^ historical bits, — 
Of shops broken open, men falling in fits. 
Great fortunes in England bequeathed to poor printers. 
And cold spells, the coldest for many past winters, — 
Then, rising by industry, knack, and address. 
Got notices up for an unbiassed press, 
"With a mind so well poised, it seemed equally made for 
Applause or abuse, just which chanced to be paid for ; 
From this point his progress was rapid and sure, 
To the post of a regular heavy reviewer. 

And here I must say, he wrote excellent articles 
On the Hebraic points, or the force of Greek particles. 
They filled up the space nothing else was prepared for. 
And nobody read that which nobody cared for ; 
If any old book reached a fiftieth edition. 
He could fill forty pages with safe erudition ; 
He could gauge the old books by the old set of rules. 
And his very old nothings pleased very old fools ; 



A FABLE FOR THE CRITICS. 169 

But give him a new book, fresh out of the heart. 
And you put him at sea without compass or chart, — 
His blunders aspired to the rank of an art ; 
For his lore was engraft, something foreign that grew 

in him. 
Exhausting the sap of the native and true in him. 
So that when a man came with a soul that was new in 

him, 
Carving new forms of truth out of Nature^s old granite. 
New and old at their birth, like Le Verrier's planet. 
Which, to get a true judgment, themselves must 

create 
In the soul of their critic the measure and weight. 
Being rather themselves a fresh standard of grace. 
To compute their own judge, and assign him his place, 
Our reviewer would crawl all about it and round it. 
And, reporting each circumstance just as he found it. 
Without the least malice, — his record would be 
Profoundly aesthetic as that of a flea. 
Which, supping on Wordsworth, should print, for our 

sakes, 
Recollections of nights with the Bard of the Lakes, 
Or, borue by an Arab guide, ventured to render a 
General view of the ruins at Denderah. 

As I said, he was never precisely unkind. 
The defect in his brain was mere absence of mind ; 
If he boasted, ^t was simply that he was self-made, 
A position which I, for one, never gainsaid. 
My respect for my Maker supposing a skill 
In his works which our hero would answer but ill ; 
And I trust that the mould which he used may be 
cracked, or he. 



170 A FABLE FOR THE CRITICS. 

Made bold by success^, may make broad his phylactery. 
And set up a kind of a man-manufactory. 
An event which I shudder to think about, seeing 
That Man is a moral, accountable being. 

He meant well enough, but was still in the way. 
As a dunce always is, let him be where he may ; 
Indeed, they appear to come into existence 
To impede other folks with their awkward assistance ; 
If you set up a dunce on the very North pole. 
All alone with himself, I believe, on my soul. 
He 'd manage to get betwixt somebody^s shins. 
And pitch him down bodily, all in his sins. 
To the grave polar bears sitting round on the ice. 
All shortening their grace, to be in for a slice ; 
Or, if he found nobody else there to pother, 
Why, one of his legs would just trip up the other. 
For there's nothing we read of in torture's inventions, 
Like a well-meaning dunce, with the best of intentions. 

A terrible fellow to meet in society, 
Not the toast that he buttered was ever so dry at tea ; 
There he 'd sit at the table and stir in his sugar. 
Crouching close for a spring, all the while, like a 

cougar ; 
Be sure of your facts, of your measures and weights. 
Of your time — he ^s as fond as an Arab of dates ; — 
You '11 be telling, perhaps, in your comical way. 
Of something you've seen in the course of the day ; 
And, just as you 're tapering out the conclusion. 
You venture an ill-fated classic allusion, — 
The girls have all got their laughs ready, when, whack ! 
The cougar comes down on your thunderstruck back ; 



A FABLE FOR THE CRITICS. 171 

You had left out a comma, — your Greek 's put in joint, 
And i^ointed at cost of your story's whole point. 
In the course of the evening, you venture on certain 
Soft speeches to Anne, in the shade of the curtain ; 
You tell her your heart can be likened to one flower, 
*' And that, oh most charming of women, 's the sun- 
flower, 
"Which turns " — here a clear nasal voice, to your terror. 
From outside the curtain, says, " that 's all an error." 
As for him, he's — no matter, he never grew tender. 
Sitting after a ball, with his feet on the fender. 
Shaping somebody's sweet features out of cigar smoke, 
(Though he 'd willingly grant you that such doings are 

smoke ;) 
All women he damns with ^nutabile semper, 
And if ever he felt something like love's distemper, 
'T was toward a young lady who spoke ancient Mexican, 
And assisted her father in making a lexicon ; 
Though I recollect hearing him get quite ferocious 
About one Mary Clausum, the mistress of Grotius, 
Or something of that sort, — but, no more to bore ye. 
With character-painting, I '11 turn to my story. 

Now, Apollo, who finds it convenient sometimes 
To get his court clear of the makers of rhymes. 
The genus, I think it is called, irritahile. 
Every one of whom thinks himself treated most shab- 
bily. 
And nurses a — what is it ? — immedicahile, 
AVhich keeps him at boiling-point, hot for a quarrel. 
As bitter as wormwood, and sourer than sorrel. 
If any poor devil but looks at a laurel ; — 
Apollo, I say, being sick of their rioting. 



172 A FABLE FOR THE CRITICS. 

(Though he sometimes acknowledged their verse had a 

quieting 
Effect after dinner, and seemed to suggest a 
Ee treat to the shrine of a tranquil siesta,) 
Kept our Hero at hand, who, by means of a bray. 
Which he gave to the life, drove the rabble away ; 
And if that would n't do, he was sure to succeed. 
If he took his review out and offered to read ; 
Or, failing in plans of this milder description. 
He would ask for their aid to get up a subscription. 
Considering that authorship was n't a rich craft. 
To print the '' American drama of Witchcraft." 
" Stay, I '11 read you a scene," — but he hardly began. 
Ere Apollo shrieked '' Help ! " and the authors all ran : 
And once, when these purgatives acted with less spirit. 
And the desperate case asked a remedy desperate. 
He drew from his pocket a foolscap epistle. 
As calmly as if 't were a nine-barrelled pistol. 
And threatened them all with the judgment to come. 
Of ''A wandering Star's first impressions of Rome." 
'' Stop I stop ! " with their hands o'er their ears 

screamed the Muses, 
'' He may go off and murder himself, if he chooses, 
'T was a means self-defence only sanctioned his trying, 
"T is mere massacre now that the enemy 's flying ; 
If he 's forced to 't again, and we happen to be there. 
Give us each a large handkerchief soaked in strong 

ether." 

I called this a " Fable for Critics ; " you think it 's 
More like a display of my rhythmical trinkets ; 
My plot, like an icicle, 's slender and slippery. 
Every moment more slender, and likely to slip awry. 



A FABLE FOR THE CRITICS. 173 

And the reader unwilling ^/^ loco desiperej 

Is free to jump over as much of my frippery 

As he fancies, and, if he 's a provident skipper, he 

May have an Odyssean sway of the gales. 

And get safe into port, ere his patience all fails ; 

Moreover, although 't is a slender return 

For your toil and expense, yet my paper will burn. 

And, if you have manfully struggled thus far with 

me. 
You may e'en twist me up, and just light your cigar 

with me : 
If too angry for that, you can tear me in pieces, 
And my membra disjecta consign to the breezes, 
A fate like great Ratzau's, whom one of those bores. 
Who beflead with bad verses poor Louis Quatorze, 
Describes, (the first verse somehow ends with victoire,) 
As dispersant partout ct ses memhres ef sa gloire ; 
Or, if I were over-desirous of earning 
A repute among noodles for classical learning, 
I could pick you a score of allusions, I wis. 
As new as the jests of Didaskalos Us ; 
Better still, I could make out a good solid list 
From recondite authors who do not exist, — 
But that would be naughty : at least, I could twist 
Something out of Absyrtus, or turn your inquiries 
After Milton's prose metaphor, drawn from Osiris ; — 
But, as Cicero says he won't say this or that, 
(A fetch, I must say, most transparent and flat,) 
After saying whate'er he could possibly think of, — 
I simply will state that I pause on the brink of 
A mire, ankle-deep, of deliberate confusion. 
Made up of old jumbles of classic allusion. 
So, when you were thinking yourselves to be pitied, 



174 A FABLE FOR THE CRITICS. 

Just conceive how much harder your teeth you M have 

gritted. 
An 't were not for the dulness I We kindly omitted. 

I 'd apologize here for my many digressions, 
Were it not that I 'm certain to trip into fresh ones, 
('T is so hard to escape if you get in their mesh once ;) 
Just reflect, if you please, how 't is said by Horatius, 
That Maeonides nods now and then, and, my gracious ! 
It certainly does look a little bit ominous 
When he gets under way with ton cVapameihomenos. 
(Here a something occurs which I'll just clap a rhyme to. 
And say it myself, ere a Zoilus has time to, — 
Any author a nap like Van Winkle^s may take. 
If he only contrive to keep readers awake. 
But he '11 very soon find himself laid on the shelf. 
If they fall a nodding when he nods himself.) 

Once for all, to return, and to stay, will I, nill I — 
When Phoebus expressed his desire for a lily, 
Our hero, whose homoeopathic sagacity 
With an ocean of zeal mixed his drop of capacity. 
Set off for the garden as fast as the wind, 
(Or, to take a comparison more to my mind. 
As a sound politician leaves conscience behind,) 
And leaped the low fence, as a party hack jumps 
O'er his principles, when something else turns up 
trumps. 

He was gone a long time, and Apollo meanwhile. 
Went over some sonnets of his with a file. 
For of all compositions, he thought that the sonnet 
Best repaid all the toil you expended upon it ; 



A FABLE FOR THE CRITICS. 1Y5 

It should reach with one impulse the end of its course. 

And for one final blow collect all of its force ; 

Not a verse should be salient, but each one should 

tend 
With a wave-like up-gathering to burst at the end ; — 
So, condensing the strength here, there smoothing a 
wry kink. 

He was killing the time, when up walked Mr. ; 

At a few steps behind him, a small man in glasses'. 
Went dodging about, muttering " murderers ! asses ! " 
From out of his pocket a paper he ''d take. 
With the proud look of martyrdom tied to its stake, 
And, reading a squib at himself, he ^d say, '' Here I 

see 
'Gainst American letters a bloody conspiracy. 
They are all by my personal enemies written ; 
I must post an anonymous letter to Britain, 
And show that this gall is the merest suggestion 
Of spite at my zeal on the Copyright question. 
For, on this side the water, 't is prudent to pull 
O'er the eyes of the public their national wool, 
By accusing of slavish respect to John Bull, 
All American authors who have more or less 
Of that anti-American humbug — success. 
While in private we 're always embracing the knees 
Of some twopenny editor over the seas. 
And licking his critical shoes, for you know 't is 
The whole aim of our lives to get one English ' no- 
tice ' ; 
My American puffs I would willingly burn all, 
(They 're all from one source, monthly, weekly, diur- 
nal) 
To get but a kick from a transmarine journal ! '' 



176 A FABLE FOR THE CRITICS. 

So, culling the gibes of each critical scorner 
As if they were plums, and himself were Jack Horner, 
He came cautiously on, peeping round every corner. 
And into each hole where a weasel might pass in. 
Expecting the knife of some critic assassin. 
Who stabs to the heart with a caricature. 
Not so bad as those daubs of the Sun, to be sure. 
Yet done with a dagger-o-type, whose vile portraits 
Disperse all one's good, and condense all one's poor 
traits. 

Apollo looked up, hearing footsteps approaching. 
And slipped out of sight the new rhymes he was broach- 
ing.— 

*' Good day, Mr. , I 'm happy to meet 

With a scholar so ripe, and a critic so neat. 

Who through Grub-street the soul of a gentleman 

carries, — 
What news from that suburb of London and Paris 
Which latterly makes such shrill claims to monopolize 
The credit of being the New World's metropolis ? " 



(^ Why, nothing of consequence, save this attack 
On my friend there, behind, by some pitiful hack. 
Who thinks every national author a poor one, 
That is n't a copy of something that 's foreign. 
And assaults the American Dick — 

'' Nay, 't is clear 
That your Damon there 's fond of a flea in his ear. 
And, if no one else furnished them gratis, on tick 
He would buy some himself, just to hear the old click ; 
Why, I honestly think, if some fool in Japan 



A FABLE FOR THE CRITICS. 177 

Should turn up his nose at the ' Poems on Man/ 
Your friend there by some inward instinct would know 

it, 
Would get it translated, reprinted, and show it ; 
As a man might take off a high stock to exhibit 
The autograph round his own neck of the gibbet. 
Nor would let it rest so, but fire column after column. 
Signed Cato, or Brutus, or something as solemn. 
By way of displaying his critical crosses. 
And tweaking that poor transatlantic proboscis. 
His broadsides resulting (and this there's no doubt of,) 
In successively sinking the craft they 're fired out of. 
Now nobody knows when an author is hit. 
If he don't have a public hysterical fit ; 
Let him only keep close in his snug garret's dim ether. 
And nobody 'd think of his critics — or him either ; 
If an author have any least fibre of worth in him. 
Abuse would but tickle the organ of mirth in him. 
All the critics on earth cannot crush with their ban. 
One word that 's in tune with the nature of man." 

" Well, perhaps so ; meanwhile I have brought you a 

book, 
Into which if you '11 just have the goodness to look. 
You may feel so delighted, when you have got through 

it. 
As to think it not unworth your while to review it. 
And I think I can promise your thoughts, if you do, 
A place in the next Democratic Review." 

" The most thankless of gods yon must surely have 

tho't me. 

For this is the forty-fourth copy you 've brought me, 
12 



178 A FABLE FOR THE CRITICS. 

I have given them away, or at least I have tried, 

But I 've forty-two left, standing all side by side, 

(The man who accepted that one copy, died,) — 

From one end of a shelf to the other they reach, 

' With the author's respects ' neatly written in each. 

The publisher, sure, will proclaim a Te Deum, 

When he hears of that order the British Museum 

Has sent for one set of what books were first printed 

In America, little or big, — for ^t is hinted 

That this is the first truly tangible hope he 

Has ever had raised for the sale of a copy. 

V ve thought very often 't would be a good thing 

In all public collections of books, if a wing 

Were set off by itself, like the seas from the dry 

lands. 
Marked Literature suited to desolate islands, 
And filled with such books as could never be read 
Save by readers of proofs, forced to do it for 

bread, — 
Such books as one's wrecked on in small country- 
taverns. 
Such as hermits might mortify over in caverns. 
Such as Satan, if printing had then been invented. 
As the climax of woe, would to Job have presented. 
Such as Crusoe might dip in, although there are few so 
Outrageously cornered by fate as poor Crusoe ; 
And since the philanthropists just now are banging 
And gibbeting all who 're in favor of hanging, — 
(Though Cheever has proved that the Bible and Altar 
Were let down from Heaven at the end of a halter. 
And that vital religion would dull and grow callous, 
TJnrefreshed, now and then^ with a sniff of the 
gaUows,)— 



A FABLE FOR THE CRITICS. 179 

And folks are beginniug to think it looks odd. 
To choke a poor scamp for the glory of God ; 
And that He who esteems the Virginia reel 
A bait to draw saints from their spiritual weal. 
And regards the quadrille as a far greater knavery 
Than crushing His African children with slavery, — 
Since all who take part in a waltz or cotillion 
Are mounted for hell on the DeviFs own pillion, 
"Who, as every true orthodox Christian Avell knows. 
Approaches the heart through the door of the 

toes, — 
That He, I was saying, whose judgments are 

stored 
For such as take steps in despite of his word. 
Should look with delight on the agonized prancing 
Of a wretch who has not the least ground for his 

dancing. 
While the State, standing by, sings a verse from the 

Psalter 
About offering to God on his favorite halter. 
And, when the legs droop from their twitching diver- 
gence, 
Sells the clothes to the Jew, and the corpse to the sur- 
geons ; — 

Now, instead of all this, I think I can direct you 

all 
To a criminal code both humane and effectul ; — 
I propose to shut up every doer of wrong 
With these desperate books, for such terms, short 

or long. 
As by statute in such cases made and provided. 
Shall be by your wise legislators decided 



180 A FABLE FOR THE CRITICS. 

Thus : — Let murderers be shut, to grow wiser and 

cooler, 

At hard labor for life on the works of Miss ; 

Petty thieves, kept from flagranter crimes by their 

fears, 
Shall peruse Yankee Doodle a blank term of years, — 
That American Punch, like the English, no doubt — 
Just the sugar and lemons and spirit left out. 

'^ But stay, here comes Tityrus Griswold, and leads on 
The flocks whom he first plucks alive, and then feeds 

on, — 
A loud cackling swarm, in whose feathers warm- 

drest, 
He goes for as perfect a — swan, as the rest. 

"There comes Emerson first, whose rich words, 

every one. 
Are like gold nails in temples to hang trophies on. 
Whose prose is grand verse, while his verse, the Lord 

knows. 

Is some of it pr No , 't is not even prose ; 

r m speaking of metres ; some poems have welled 
From those rare depths of soul that have ne'er been 

excelled ; 
They're not epics, but that does n't matter a pin. 
In creating, the only hard thing 's to begin ; 
A grass-blade 's no easier to make than an oak, 
If you 've once found the way, you've achieved the 

grand stroke ; 
In the worst of his poems are mines of rich matter, 
But thrown in a heap with a crush and a clatter ; 
Now it is not one thing nor another alone 



A FABLE FOR THE CRITICS. Igl 

Makes a poem, but rather the general tone, 
The something pervading, uniting the whole. 
The before unconceived, unconceivable soul, 
So that just in removing this trifle or that, you 
Take away, as it were, a chief limb of the statue ; 
Roots, wood, bark, and leaves, singly perfect may be. 
But, clapt hodge-podge together, they don't make a 
tree. 

**'But, to come back to Emerson, (whom by the 

way, 
I believe we left waiting,) — his is, we may say, 
A Greek head on right Yankee shoulders, whose range 
Has Olympus for one pole, for t' other the Exchange ; 
He seems, to my thinking, (although I' m afraid 
The comparison must, long ere this, have been 

made,) 
A Plotinus- Montaigne, where the Egyptian's gold 

mist 
And tlie Gascon's shrewd wit cheek-by-jowl co-exist ; 
All admire, and yet scarcely six converts he 's got 
To I don't (nor they either) exactly know what ; 
For though he builds glorious temples, 't is odd 
He leaves never a doorway to get in a god. 
'T is refreshing to old-fashioned people like me. 
To meet such a primitive Pagan as he. 
In whose mind all creation is duly respected 
As parts of himself — just a little projected ; 
And who 's willing to worship the stars and the sun, 
A convert to — nothing but Emerson. 
So perfect a balance there is in his head, 
That he talks of things sometimes as if they were 

dead j 



182 A Fable for the critics. 

Life, nature, love, God, and affairs of that sort. 

He looks at as merely ideas ; in short. 

As if they were fossils stuck round in a cabinet. 

Of such vast extent that our earth 's a mere dab in it ; 

Composed just as he is inclined to conjecture her, 

Namely, one part pure earth, ninety-nine parts pure 

lecturer ; 
You are filled with delight at his clear demonstration. 
Each figure, word, gesture, just fits the occasion, 
With the quiet precision of science he '11 sort 'em. 
But you can't help suspecting the whole dipost mor- 
tem. 

'' There are persons, mole-blind to the soul's make 
and style. 
Who insist on a likeness 'twixt him and Carlyle ; 
To compare him with Plato would be vastly fairer, 
Carlyle 's the more burly, but E. is the rarer ; 
He sees fewer objects, but clearlier, truelier, 
If C. 's as original, E. 's more peculiar ; 
That he 's more of a man you might say of the one. 
Of the other he 's more of an Emerson ; 
C. 's the Titan, as shaggy of mind as of limb, — 
E. the clear-eyed Olympian, rapid and slim ; 
The one 's two-thirds Norseman, the other half Greek, 
Where the one 's most abounding, the other 's to seek ; 
C.'s generals require to be seen in the mass, — 
E.'s specialties gain if enlarged by the glass ; 
C. gives nature and God his own fits of the blues, 
And rims common-sense things with mystical hues, — 
E. sits in a mystery calm and intense. 
And looks coolly around him with sharp common- 
sense : 



A FABLE FOR THE CRITICS. Igg 

C. shows you how every-day matters unite 

With the dim transdiurnal recesses of night, — 

While E., in a plain, preternatural way. 

Makes mysteries matters of mere every day ; 

C. draws all his characters quite a la Fuseli, — 

He don't sketch their bundles of muscles and thews 

illy. 
But he paints with a brush so untamed and j^rofuse. 
They seem nothing but bundles of muscles and thews ; 
E. is rather like Flaxman, lines strait and severe. 
And a colorless outline, but full, round, and clear ; — 
To the men he thinks worthy he frankly accords 
The design of a white marble statue in words. 
C. labors to get at the centre, and then 
Take a reckoning from there of his actions and men ; 
E. calmly assumes the said centre as granted. 
And, given himself, has whatever is wanted. 

'^ He has imitators in scores, who omit 
Kg part of the man but his wisdom and wit, — 
Who go carefully o'er the sky-blue of his brain. 
And when he has skimmed it once, skim it again ; 
If at all they resemble him, you may be sure it is 
Because their shoals mirror his mists and obscurities. 
As a mud-puddle seems deep as heaven for a minute. 
While a cloud that floats o'er is reflected within it. 

*' There comes , for instance ; to see him 's rare 

sport. 
Tread in Emerson's tracks with legs painfully short ; 
How he jumps, how he strains, and gets red in the 

face. 
To keep step with the mystagogue's natural pace ! 



184 A FABLE FOR THE CRITICS. 

He follows as close as a stick to a rocket. 

His fingers exploring the prophet's each pocket. 

Fie, for shame, brother bard ; with good fruit of your 

own 
Can't you let neighbor Emerson's orchards alone ? 
Besides, 't is no use, you '11 not find e'en a core,— 

has picked up all the windfalls before. 

They might strip every tree, and E. never would catch 

'em. 
His Hesperides have no rude dragon to watch 'em ; 
When they send him a dishfull, and ask him to try 'em. 
He never suspects how the sly rogues came by 'em ; 
He wonders why 't is there are none such his trees on, 
And thinks 'em the best he has tasted this season. 

'' Yonder, calm as a cloud, Alcott stalks in a dream. 
And fancies himself in thy groves. Academe, 
With the Parthenon nigh, and the olive-trees o'er him. 
And never a fact to perplex him or bore him. 
With a snug room at Plato's, when night comes, to 

walk to, 
And people from morning till midnight to talk to. 
And from midnight till morning, nor snore in their 

listening ; — 
So he muses, his face with the joy of it glistening, 
Eor his highest conceit of a happiest state is 
Where they 'd live upon acorns, and hear him talk 

gratis ; 

And indeed, I believe, no man ever talked better 

Each sentence hangs perfectly poised to a letter ; 
He seems piling words, but there 's royal dust hid 
In the heart of each sky-piercing pyramid. 
While he talks he is great, but goes out like a taper, 



A FABLE FOR THE CRITICS. 185 

If you shut him up closely with pen, ink, and paper ; 
Yet his fingers itch for 'em from morning till night. 
And he thinks he does wrong if he don't always write ; 
In this, as in all things, a lamb among men, 
He goes to sure death when he goes to his pen. 

^^ Close behind him is Brownson, his mouth very full 
With attempting to gulp a Gregorian bull ; 
AVho contrives, spite of that, to pour out as he goes 
A stream of transparent and forcible prose ; 
He shifts quite about, then proceeds to expound 
That 't is merely the earth, not himself, that turns 

round, 
And wishes it clearly impressed on your mind. 
That the weather-cock rules and not follows the wind ; 
Proving first, then as deftly confuting each side. 
With no doctrine pleased that 's not somewhere denied. 
He lays the denier away on the shelf. 
And then — down beside him lies gravely himself. 
He 's the Salt Kiver boatman, who always stands will- 
ing 
To convey friend or foe without charging a shilling. 
And so fond of a trip that, when leisure 's to spare. 
He '11 row himself up, if he can't get a fare. 
The worst "of it is, that his logic 's so strong, 
That of two sides he commonly chooses the wrong ; 
If there is only one, why, he '11 split it in two. 
And first pummel this half, then that, black and blue. 
That white 's white needs no proof, but it takes a deep 

fellow 
To prove it jet-black, and that jet-black is yellow. 
He offers the true faith to drink in a sieve, — 
When it reaches your lips there 's naught left to believe 



186 A FABLE FOR THE CRITICS. 

But a few silly- (syllo-, I mean,) -gisms that squat 'em 
Like tadpoles, o'erjoyed with the mud at the bottom. 

'^ There is Willis, so natty and jaunty and gay. 
Who says his best things in so foppish a way. 
With conceits and pet phrases so thickly o'erlaying 'em. 
That one hardly knows whether to thank him for say- 
ing 'em ; 
Over-ornament ruins both poem and prose. 
Just conceive of a muse with a ring in her nose ! 
His prose had a natural grace of its own. 
And enough of it, too, if he 'd let it alone ; 
But he twitches and jerks so, one fairly gets tired, 
And is forced to forgive where he might have admired ; 
Yet whenever it slips away free and unlaced. 
It runs like a stream with a musical waste. 
And gurgles along with the liquidest sweep ; — 
'T is not deep as a river, but who 'd have it deep ? 
In a country where scarcely a village is found 
That has not its author sublime and profound. 
For some one to be slightly shoal is a duty. 
And Willis's shallowness makes half his beauty. 
His prose winds along with a blithe, gurgling error. 
And reflects all of Heaven it can see in its mirror. 
'T is a narrowish strip, but it is not an artifice, — 
'T is the true out-of-doors with its genuine hearty phiz ; 
It is Nature herself, and there 's something in that. 
Since most brains reflect but the crown of a hat. 
No volume I know^ to read under a tree, 
More truly delicious than his A I'Abri, 
With the shadows of leaves flowing over your book. 
Like ripple-shades netting the bed of a brook ; 
With June coming softly your shoulder to look over, 



A FABLE FOR THE CRITICS. 187 

Breezes waiting to turn every leaf of your book over, 
And Nature to criticise still as you read, — 
The page that bears that is a rare one indeed. 

'^ He's so innate a cockney, that had he been born 
Where plain bare-skin 's the only full-dress that is 

worn. 
He 'd have given his own such an air that you 'd say 
'T had been made by a tailor to lounge in Broadway. 
His nature 's a glass of champagne with the foam on 't. 
As tender as Fletcher, as witty as Beaumont ; 
So his best things are done in the flush of the moment. 
If he wait, all is spoiled ; he may stir it and shake it. 
But the fixed air once gone, he can never re-make it ; 
He might be a marvel of easy delightfulness. 
If he would not sometimes leave the r out of spright- 

fulness ; 
And he ought to let Scripture alone — 't is self-slaughter. 
For nobody likes inspiration and water. 
He'd have been just the fellow to sup at the Mermaid, 
Cracking jokes at rare Ben, with an eye to the bar- 
maid. 
His wit running up as Canary ran down, — 
The topmost bright bubble on the wave of The Town. 

'^ Here comes Parker, the Orson of parsons, a man 
Whom the Church undertook to put under her ban, — 
(The Church of Socinus, I mean) — his opinions 
Being So- (ultra) -cinian, they shocked the Socinians ; 
They believed — faith I'm puzzled — I think I may call 
Their belief a believing in nothing at all, 
Or something of that sort ; I know they all went 
For a general union of total dissent : 



188 A FABLE FOR THE CRITICS. 

He went a step farther ; without cough or hem. 
He frankly avowed he believed not in them ; 
And, before he could be jumbled up or prevented. 
From their orthodox kind of dissent he dissented. 
There was heresy here, you perceive, for the right 
Of privately judging means simply that light 
Has been granted to 7ne, for deciding on you. 
And, in happier times, before Atheism grew. 
The deed contained clauses for cooking you, too. 
Now at Xerxes and Knut we all laugh, yet our foot 
With the same wave is wet that mocked Xerxes and 

Knut ; 
And we all entertain a sincere private notion, 
That our Thus far ! will have a great weight with the 

ocean. 
'T was so with our liberal Christians : they bore 
With sincerest conviction their chairs to the shore ; 
They brandished their worn theological birches. 
Bade natural progress keep out of the Churches, 
And expected the lines they had drawn to prevail 
With the fast-rising tide to keep out of their pale ; 
They had formerly dammed the Pontifical See, 
And the same thing, they thought, would do nicely 

for P. ; ^ 

But he turned up his nose at their murmuring and 
shamming. 

And cared (shall I say ?) not a d— for their dam- 
ming ; 

So they first read him out of their Church, and next 

minute 
Turned round and declared he had never been in it. 
But the ban was too small or the man was too big, 
For he recks not their bells, books, and candles a fig ; 



A FABLE FOR THE CRITICS. 189 

(He don't look like a man who would stay treated 

shabbily, 
Sophrouiscus' son's head o'er the features of Eab- 

elais ;) — 
He bangs and bethwacks them, — their backs he salutes 
With the whole tree of knowledge torn up by the roots ; 
His sermons with satire are plenteously ver juiced. 
And he talks in one breath of Confutzee, Cass, Zer- 

duscht 
Jack Robinson, Peter the Hermit, Strap, Dathan, 
Gush, Pitt (not the bottomless, that he 's no faith in). 
Pan, Pillicock, Shakspeare, Paul, Toots, Monsieur 

Tonson, 
Aldebaran, Alcander, Ben Khorat, Ben Jonson, 
Thoth, Richter, Joe Smith, Father Paul, Judah Monis, 
Musa3us, Muretus, — /x Scorpionis, 
Maccabee, Maccaboy, Mac — Mac — ah ! Machiavelli, 
Condorcet, Count d'Orsay, Conder, Say, Ganganelli, 
Orion, O'Connell, the Chevalier D'O, 
(Whom the great Sully speaks of,) to ;ra^, the great 

toe 
Of the statue of Jupiter, now made to pass 
For that of Jew Peter by good Romish brass, — 
(You may add for yourselves, for I find it a bore. 
All the names you have ever, or not, heard before. 
And when you 've done that — why, invent a few more.) 
His hearers can't tell you on Sunday beforehand. 
If in that day's discourse they ' 11 be Bibled or Koraned, 
For he 's seized the idea (by his martyrdom fired,) 
That all men (not orthodox) may he inspired ; 
Yet, though wisdom profane with his creed he may 

weave in. 
He makes it quite clear what he does nH believe in. 



190 A FABLE FOR THE CRITICS. 

While some, who decry him, think all Kingdom Come 
Is a sort of a, kind of a, species of Hum, 
Of which, as it were, so to speak, not a crumb 
Would be left, if we did n't keep carefully mum, 
And, to make a clean breast, that 't is perfectly plain 
That all kinds of wisdom are somewhat profane ; 
Now P/s creed than this may be lighter or darker. 
But in one thing, 't is clear, he has faith, namely — 

Parker ; 
And this is what makes him the crowd-drawing preacher. 
There 's a back-ground of god to each hard-working 

feature. 
Every word that he speaks has been fierily furnaced 
In the blast of a life that has struggled in earnest : 
There he stands, looking more like a ploughman than 

priest. 
If not dreadfully awkward, not graceful at least. 
His gestures all downright and same, if you will, 
As of brown-fisted Hobnail in hoeing a drill. 
But his periods fall on you, stroke after stroke. 
Like the blows of a lumberer felling an oak. 
You forget the man wholly, you 're thankful to meet 
With a preacher who smacks of the field and the street. 
And to hear, you 're not over-particular whence. 
Almost Taylor's profusion, quite Latimer's sense. 



''There is Bryant, as quiet, as cool, and as digni- 
fied. 
As a smooth, silent iceberg, that never is ignified. 
Save when by reflection 't is kindled o' nights 
With a semblance of flame by the chill Northern 
Lights. 



A FABLE FOR THE CRITICS. I9I 

He may rank (Griswold says so) first bard of your 

nation, 
(There's no doubt that he stands in supreme iceola- 

tion,) 
Your topmost Parnassus he may set his heel on. 
But no warm applauses come, peal following peal on, — 
He 's too smooth and too polished to hang any zeal on : 
Unqualified merits, I '11 grant, if you choose, he has 

'em, 
But he lacks the one merit of kindling enthusiasm ; 
If he stir you at all, it is just, on my soul. 
Like being stirred up with the very North Pole. 

" He is very nice reading in summer, but inter 

Nos, we don't want extra freezing in winter ; 

Take him up in the depth of July, my advice is. 

When you feel an Egyptian devotion to ices. 

But, deduct all you can, there's enough that's right 
good in him. 

He has a true soul for field, river, and wood in him ; 

And his heart, in the midst of brick walls, or where'er 
it is. 

Glows, softens, and thrills with the tenderest chari- 
ties, — 

To you mortals that delve in this trade- rid den planet ? 

No, to old Berkshire's hills, with their limestone and 
granite. 

If you 're one who iyi loco (add foco here) desipis, 

You will get of his outermost heart (as I guess) a piece ; 

But you 'd get deeper down if you came as a precipice. 

And would break the last seal of its inwardest foun- 
tain. 

If you only could palm yourself off for a mountain. 



192 A FABLE FOR THE CRITICS. 

Mr. Quivis, or somebody quite as discerning, 
Some scholar who 's hourly expecting his learning, 
Calls B. the American Wordsworth ; but Wordsworth 
Is worth near as much as your whole tuneful herd's 

worth. 
No, don't be absurd, he 's an excellent Bryant ; 
But, my friends, you'll endanger the life of your client. 
By attempting to stretch him up into a giant : 
If you choose to compare him, I think there are two 

per- 
-sons fit for a parallel — Thomson and Cowper ; ' 
I don't mean exactly, — there's something of each. 
There 's T.'s love of nature, C.'s penchant to preach ; 
Just mix up their minds so that C.'s spice of craziness 
Shall balance and neutralize T.'s turn for laziness. 
And it gives you a brain cool, quite frictionless, quiet. 
Whose internal police nips the buds of all riot, — 
A brain like a permanent strait-jacket put on 
The heart which strives vainly to burst oif a button, — 
A brain which, without being slow or mechanic. 
Does more than a larger less drilled, more volcanic ; 
He 's a Cowper condensed, with no craziness bitten. 
And the advantage that Wordsworth before him has 
written. 

'^ But, my dear little bardlings, don't prick up your 
ears, 
Nor suppose I would rank you and Bryant as peers : 
If I call him an iceberg, I don't mean to say 

1 To demonstrate quickly and easily how per- 
versely absurd 't is to sound this name Cowper, 
As people in general call him named super, 
I just add that he rhymes it himself with horse-trooper. 



A FABLE FOR THE CRITICS. I93 

I'll ere is nothing in that which is grand, in its way ; 
lie is almost the one of your poets that knows 
How much grace, strength, and dignity lie in Re- 
pose ; 
If he sometimes fall short, he is too wise to mar 
His thought's modest fulness by going too far ; 
'T would be well if your authors should all make a 

trial 
Of what virtue there is in severe self-denial, 
And measure their writings by Hesiod's staff, 
Which teaches that all has less value than half. 

*' There is Whittier, whose swelling and vehement 
heart 
Strains the strait-breasted drab of the Quaker apart. 
And reveals the live Man, still supreme and erect 
Underneath the bemummying wrappers of sect ; 
There was ne'er a man born who had more of the 

swing 
Of the true lyric bard and all that kind of thing ; 
And his failures arise, (though perhaps he don't know 

it,) 
From the very same cause that has made him a 

poet, — 
A fervor of mind which knows no separation 
'Twixt simple excitement and pure inspiration. 
As my Pythoness erst sometimes erred from not know- 
ing 
If 't were I or mere wind through her tripod was blow- 
ing ; 
Let his mind once get head in its favorite direction 
And the torrent of verse bursts the dams of reflec- 
tion, 
^3 



194: A FABLE FOR THE CRITICS. 

While., borne with the rush of the meter along. 
The poet may chance to go right or go wrong, 
Content with the whirl and delirium of song ; 
Then his grammar 's not always correct, nor his rhymes, 
And he 's prone to repeat his own lyrics sometimes, 
Not his best, though, for those are struck off at white- 
heats 
When the heart in his breast like a trip-hammer 

beats, 
And can ne'er be repeated again any more 
Than they could have been carefully plotted before : 
Like old what 's-his-name there at the battle of Hast- 
ings, 
(Who, however, gave more than mere rhythmical bast- 
ings,) 
Our Quaker leads off metaphorical fights 
For reform and whatever they call human rights, 
Both singing and striking in front of the war 
And hitting his foes with the mallet of Thor ; 
Anne liaec, one exclaims, on beholding his knocks, 
Vestisfilii tni, 0, leather-clad Fox ? 
Can that be thy son, in the battle's mid din, 
Preaching brotherly love and ther. driving it in 
To the brain of the tough old Goliatl/ of sin. 
With the smoothest of pebbles from Castaly's spring 
Impressed on his hard moral sense with a sling ? 

'^ All honor and praise to the right-hearted bard 
Who was true to The Voice when such service was 

hard. 
Who himself was so free he dared sing for the slave 
When to look but a protest in silence was brave ; 
All honor and praise to the women and men 



A FABLE FOR THE CRITICS. I95 

Who spoke out for the dumb and the down-trodden 

then! 
I need not to name them, already for each 
I see History preparing the statue and niche ; 
They were harsh, but shall you be so shocked at hard 

words 
Who have beaten your pruning hooks up into swords. 
Whose rewards and hurrahs men are surer to gain 
By the reaping of men and of women than grain ? 
Why should you stand aghast at their fierce wordy war, 

if 
You scalp one another for Bank or for Tariff ? 
Your calling them cut-throats and knaves all day 

long 
Don't prove that the use of hard language is wrong ; 
While the World's heart beats quicker to think of such 

men 
As signed Tyranny's doom with a bloody steel-pen, 
While on Fourth-of -Julys beardless orators fright one 
With hints at Harmodius and Aristogeiton, 
You need not look shy at your sisters and brothers 
Who stab with sharp words for the freedom of 

others ; — 
No, a wreath, twine a wreath for the loyal and true 
Who, for sake of the many, dared stand with the few, 
Not of blood-spattered laurel for enemies braved. 
But of broad, peaceful oak-leaves for citizens saved ! 

" Here comes Dana, abstractedly loitering along. 
Involved in a paulo-post-future of song. 
Who '11 be going to write what '11 never be written 
Till the Muse, ere he thinks of it, gives him the 
mitten, — 



196 A FABLE FOR THE CRITICS. 

Who is so well aware of how things should be done, 
That his own works displease him before they^-e 

begun, — 
Who so well all that makes up good poetry knows. 
That the best of his poems is written in prose ; 
All saddled and bridled stood Pegasus waiting. 
He was booted and spurred, but he loitered debating. 
In a very grave question his soul was immersed, — 
Which foot in the stirrup he ought to put first ; 
And, while this point and that he judicially dwelt on. 
He, somehow or other, had written Paul Felton, 
Whose beauties or faults, whichsoever you see there. 
You '11 allow only genius could hit upon either. 
That he once was the Idle Man none will deplore. 
But I fear he will never be any thing more ; 
The ocean of song heaves and glitters before him. 
The depth and the vastness and longing sweep o'er 

him, 
He knows every breaker and shoal on the chart. 
He has the Coast Pilot and so on by heart. 
Yet he spends his whole life, like the man in the 

fable. 
In learning to swim on his library-table. 

'' There swaggers John Neal, who has wasted in 
Maine 
The sinews and chords of his pugilist brain. 
Who might have been poet, but that, in its stead, 
■^' he 

Preferred to believe that he was so already ; 
Too hasty to wait till Art's ripe fruit should drop. 
He must pelt down an unripe and colicky crop ; 
Who took to the law, and had this sterling plea for it, 



A FABLE FOR THE CRITICS. 107 

It required him to quarrel, and paid him a fee for it ; 
A man who 's made less than he might have, because 
He always has thought himself more than he was, — 
Who, with very good natural gifts as a bard. 
Broke the strings of his lyre out by striking too hard. 
And cracked half the notes of a truly fine voice. 
Because song drew less instant attention than noise. 
Ah, men do not know how much strength is in poise. 
That he goes the farthest who goes far enough, 
And that all beyond that is just bother and stuff. 
No vain man matures, he makes too much new wood ; 
His blooms are too thick for the fruit to be good ; 
^T is the modest man ripens, 't is he that achieves, 
Just what 's needed of sunshine and shade he receives ; 
Grapes, to mellow, require the cool dark of their 

leaves ; 
Neal wants balance ; he throws his mind always too 

far. 
And whisks out flocks of comets, but never a star ; 
He has so much muscle, and loves so to show it. 
That he strips himself naked to prove he 's a poet. 
And, to show he could leap Art's wide ditch, if he 

tried. 
Jumps clean o'er it, and into the hedge t' other side. 
He has strength, but there 's nothing about him in 

keeping ; 
One gets surelier onward by walking than leaping ; 
He has used his own sinews himself to distress. 
And had done vastly more had he done vastly less ; 
In letters, too soon is as bad as too late. 
Could he only have waited he might have been great, 
But he plumped into Helicon up to the waist. 
And muddied the stream ere he took his first taste. 



198 A FABLE FOR THE CRITICS. 

^^ There is Hawthorne, with genius so shrinking and 
rare 
That you hardly at first see the strength that is there ; 
A frame so robust, with a nature so sweet. 
So earnest, so graceful, so solid, so fleet. 
Is worth a descent from Olympus to meet ; 
'T is as if a rough oak that for ages had stood. 
With his gnarled bony branches like ribs of the wood. 
Should bloom, after cycles of struggle and scathe. 
With a single anemone trembly and rathe ; 
His strength is so tender, his wildness so meek. 
That a suitable parallel sets one to seek, — 
He 's a John Bunyan Fouque, a Puritan Tieck ; 
When Nature was shaping him, clay was not granted 
For making so full-sized a man as she wanted, 
So, to fill out her model, a little she spared 
From some finer-grained stuff for a woman prepared, 
And she could not have hit a more excellent plan 
For making him fully and perfectly man. 
The success of her scheme gave her so much delight. 
That she tried it again, shortly after, in Dwight ; 
Only, while she was kneading and shaping the clay, 
She sang to her work in her sweet childish way. 
And found, when she "d put the last touch to his soul, 
That the music had somehow got mixed with the whole. 

''Here 's Cooper, who 's written six volumes to show 
He 's as good as a lord : well, let 's grant that he 's so ; 
If a person prefer that description of praise. 
Why, a coronet 's certainly cheaper than bays ; 
But he need take no pains to convince us he' s not 
(As his enemies say) the American Scott. 
Choose any twelve men, and let C. read aloud 



A FABLE FOR THE CRITICS. I99 

That one of his novels of which he 's most proud. 
And I 'd lay any bet that, without ever quitting 
Their box, they ^d be all, to a man, for acquitting. 
He has drawn you one character, though, that is new, 
One wildflower he 's plucked that is wet with the dew 
Of this fresh Western world, and, the thing not to 

mince, 
He has done naught but copy it ill ever since ; 
His Indians, with proper respect be it said. 
Are just Natty Bumpo daubed over with red. 
And his very Long Toms are the same useful Nat, 
Kigged up in duck pants and a sou^-wester hat, 
(Though, once in a Coffin, a good chance was found 
To have slipt the old fellow away underground.) 
All his other men-figures are clothes upon sticks. 
The dernier chemise of a man in a fix, 
(As a captain besieged, when his garrison 's small. 
Sets up caps upon poles to be seen o 'er the wall ;) 
And the women he draws from one model don't vary, 
All sappy as maples and flat as a prairie. 
When a character 's wanted, he goes to the task 
As a cooper would do in composing a cask ; 
He picks out the staves, of their qualities heedful. 
Just hoops them together as tight as is needful. 
And, if the best fortune should crown the attempt, he 
Has made at the most something wooden and empty. 

" Don't suppose I would underrate Cooper's abilities. 
If I thought you 'd do that, I should feel very ill at ease ; 
The men who have given to 07ie character life 
And objective existence, are not very rife, 
You may number them all, both prose-writers and 
singers. 



200 A l^^ABLE FOR THE CRITICS. 

Without overrunning the bounds of your fingers. 
And Natty won't go to oblivion quicker 
Than Adams the parson or Primrose the vicar. 

'' There is one thing in Cooper I like, too, and that 

is 
That on manners he lectures his countrymen gratis ; 
Not precisely so either, because, for a rarity. 
He is paid for his tickets in unpopularity. 
Now he may overcharge his American pictures. 
But you '11 grant there 's a good deal of truth in his 

strictures ; 
And I honor the man who is willing to sink 
Half his present repute for the freedom to think, 
And, when he has thought, be his cause strong or 

weak. 
Will risk t' other half for the freedom to speak. 
Caring naught for what vengeance the mob has in 

store, 
Let that mob be the upper ten thousand or lower. 

'^ There are truths you Americans need to be told. 
And it never '11 refute them to swagger and scold ; 
John Bull, looking o'er the Atlantic, in choler 
At your aptness for trade, says you worship the dollar ; 
But to scorn such i-dollar-try 's what very few do, 
And John goes to that church as often as you do. 
No matter what John says, don't try to outcrow him, 
'T is enough to go quietly on and outgrow him ; 
Like most fathers. Bull hates to see Number One 
Displacing himself in the mind of his son. 
And detests the same faults in himself he 'd neglected 
When he sees them again in his child's glass reflected ; 



A FABLE FOR THE CRITICS. 201 

To love one another you 're too likely by half, 
If he is a bull, you 're a pretty stout calf. 
And tear your own pasture for naught but to show 
What a nice pair of horns you 're beginning to grow. 

*^ There are one or two things I should just like to 

hint, 
For you don't often get the truth told you in print ; 
The most of you (this is what strikes all beholders) 
Have a mental and physical stoop in the shoulders ; 
Though you ought to be free as the winds and the 

waves, 
You 've the gait and the manners of runaway slaves ; 
Tho' you brag of your New World, you don't half 

believe in it. 
And as much of the Old as is possible vreave in it ; 
Your goddess of freedom, a tight, buxom girl. 
With lips like a cherry and teeth like a pearl. 
With eyes bold as Here's, and hair floating free. 
And full of the sun as the spray of the sea. 
Who can sing at a husking or romp at a shearing. 
Who can trip through the forests alone without fearing. 
Who can drive home the cows with a song through the 

grass. 
Keeps glancing aside into Europe's cracked glass. 
Hides her red hands in gloves, pinches up her lithe 

waist. 
And makes herself wretched with transmarine taste ; 
She loses her fresh country charm when she takes 
Any mirror except her own rivers and lakes. 

'^ You steal Englishmen's books and think English- 
men's thought. 
With their salt on her tail your wild eagle is caught ; 



202 A FABLE FOR THE CRITICS. 

Your literature suits its each whisper and motion 

To what will be thought of it over the ocean ; 

The cast clothes of Europe your statesmanship tries 

And mumbles again the old blarneys and lies ; — 

Forget Europe wholly, your veins throb with blood 

To which the dull current in hers is but mud ; 

Let her sneer, let her say your experiment fails. 

In her voice there 's a tremble e'en now while she rails, 

And your shore will soon be in the nature of things 

Covered thick with gilt driftwood of runaway kings, 

Where alone, as it were in a Longfellow^s Waif, 

Her fugitive pieces will jBnd themselves safe. 

0, my friends, thank your God, if you have one, that he 

^Twixt the Old World and you set the gulf of a sea ; 

Be strong-backed, brown-handed, upright as your pines, 

By the scale of a hemisphere shape your designs, 

Be true to yourselves and this new nineteenth age. 

As a statue by Powers, or a picture by Page, 

Plough, dig, sail, forge, build, carve, paint, make all 

things new. 
To your own New- World instincts contrive to be true. 
Keep your ears open wide to the Future's first call. 
Be whatever you will, but yourselves first of all. 
Stand fronting the dawn on Toil's heaven-scaling peaks. 
And become my new race of more practical Greeks. — 
Hem ! your likeness at present, I shudder to tell o' 't. 
Is that you have your slaves, and the Greek had his 

helot." 

Here a gentleman present, who had in his attic 
More pepper than brains, shrieked — " The man 's a 

fanatic, 
I 'm a capital tailor with warm tar and feathers, 



A FABLE FOR THE CRITICS. 203 

And will make him a suit that '11 serve in all weathers : 



But we '11 argue the point first, I'm willing to 

reason 't. 
Palaver before condemnation 's but decent, 
So, through my humble person. Humanity begs 
Of the friends of true freedom a loan of bad eggs." 
But Apollo let one such a look of his show forth 
As when rjis vuxrj ior/.w<Sy and so forth. 
And the gentleman somehow slunk out of the way. 
But, as he was going, gained courage to say, — 
'' At slavery in the abstract my whole soul rebels, 
I am as strongly opposed to 't as any one else." 
^* Ay, no doubt, but whenever I've happened to meet 
With a wrong or a crime, it is always concrete," 
Answered Phoebus severely ; then turning to us, 
^•'The mistakes of such fellows as just made the fuss 
Is only in taking a great busy nation 
For a part of their pitiful cotton-plantation. — 
But there comes Miranda, Zeus ! where shall I flee to ? 
She has such a penchant for bothering me too ! 
She always keeps asking if I don't observe a 
Particular likeness 'twixt her and Minerva : 
She tells me my efforts in verse are quite clever ; — 
She's been travelling now, and will be worse than ever ; 
One would think, though, a sharp-sighted noter she 'd 

be 
Of all that 's worth mentioning over the sea. 
For a woman must surely see well, if she try. 
The whole of whose being 's a capital I : 
She will take an old notion and make it her own 
By saying it o'er in her Sybilline tone. 
Or persuade you 't is something tremendously deep. 
By repeating it so as to put you to sleep ; 



204 A FABLE FOR THE CRITICS. 

And she well may defy any mortal to see through it. 
When once she has mixed up her infinite me through 

it. 
There is one thing she owns in her own single right. 
It is native and genuine — namely, her spite : 
Though, when acting as censor, she privately blows 
A censor of vanity 'neath her own nose." 

Here Miranda came up, and said, ''Phoebus! you 

know 
That the infinite Soul has its infinite woe, 
As I ought to know, having lived cheek by jowl. 
Since the day I was born, with the Infinite Soul ; 
I myself introduced, I myself, I alone. 
To my Land's better life authors solely my own, 
Who the sad heart of earth on their shoulders have 

taken. 
Whose works sound a depth by Life's quiet unshaken. 
Such as Shakspeare, for instance, the Bible, and 

Bacon, 
Not to mention my own works ; Time's nadir is fleet, 
And, as for myself, I 'm quite out of conceit," — 

'' Quite out of conceit ! I 'm enchanted to hear it." 
Cried Apollo aside, " Who 'd have tliought she was 

near it ? 
To be sure one is apt to exhaust those commodities 
He uses too fast, yet in this case as odd it is 
As if Neptune should say to his turbots and whitings, 
' I 'm as much out of salt as Miranda's own writings,' 
(Which, as she in her own happy manner has said, 
Sound a depth, for 't is one of the functions of lead.) 
She often has asked me if I could not find 



A FABLE FOR THE CRITICS. 205 

A place somewhere near nie that suited her mind ; 
I know but a single one vacant, which she. 
With her rare talent that way, would fit to a T. 
And it would not imply any pause of cessation 
In the work she esteems her peculiar vocation, — 
She may enter on duty to-day, if she chooses. 
And remain Tiring-woman for life to the Muses." 

(Miranda meanwhile has succeeded in driving 
Up into a corner, in spite of their striving, 
A small flock of terrified victims, and there. 
With an I-turn-thc-crank-of-the-Universe air 
And a tone which, at least to 7ny fancy, appears 
Not so much to be entering as boxing your ears. 
Is unfolding a tale (of herself, I surmise. 
For 't is dotted as thick as a peacock's with I's.) 
Apropos of Miranda, I '11 rest on my oars 
And drift through a trifling digression on bores, 
For, though not wearing ear-rings in more majorti7n, 
Our ears are kept bored just as if we still wore 'em. 
There was one feudal custom worth keeping, at least. 
Boasted bores made a part of each well-ordered feast. 
And of all quiet pleasures the very ne plus 
Was in hunting wild bores as the tame ones hunt us. 
Archaeologiaus, I know, who have personal fears 
Of this wise application of hounds and of spears, 
Have tried to make out, with a zeal more than 

wonted, 
'T was a kind of wild swine that our ancestors hunted ; 
But I '11 never believe that the age which has strewn 
Europe o'er with cathedrals, and otherwise shown 
That it knew what was what, could by chance not 
have knowji. 



206 A FABLE FOR THE CRITICS. 

(Spending, too, its chief time with its buff on, no 

doubt,) 
Which beast 't would improve the world most to thin out, 
I divide bores myself, in the manner of rifles. 
Into two great divisions, regardless of trifles ; — 
There 's your smooth-bore and screw-bore, who do not 

much vary 
In the weight of cold lead they respectively carry. 
The smooth-bore is one in whose essence the mind 
Not a corner nor cranny to cling by can find ; 
You feel as in nightmares sometimes, when you slip 
Down a steep slated roof where there's nothing to grip, 
You slide and you slide, the blank horror increases. 
You had rather by far be at once smashed to pieces, 
You fancy a whirlpool below white and frothing. 
And finally drop off and light upon — nothing. 
The screw-bore has twists in him, faint predilections 
For going just wrong in the tritest directions ; 
When he 's wrong he is flat, when he 's right he can't 

show it. 
He '11 tell you what Snooks said about the new poet,^ 
Or how Fogrum was outraged by Tennyson's Princess ; 
He has spent all his spare time and intellect since his 
Birth in perusing, on each art and science. 
Just the books in which no one puts any reliance. 
And though 7iemo, we 're told, lioris omnibus sapity 
The rule will not fit him, however you shape it. 
For he has a perennial foison of sappiness ; 
He has just enough force to spoil half your day's hap- 
piness, 



^ If you call Snooks an owl, he will show by his looks 
That he 's morally certain you 're jealous of Snooks.) 



A FABLE FOR THE CRITICS. 207 

And to make him a sort of mosquito to be with, 
But just not enough to dispute or agree with. 

These sketches I made (not to be too explicit) 
From two honest fellows who made me a visit. 
And broke, like the tale of the Bear and the Fiddle, 
My reflections on Halleck short off by the middle ; 
I shall not now go into the subject more deeply. 
For I notice that some of my readers look sleep'ly, 
I will barely remark that, ^mongst civilized nations. 
There ^s none that displays more exemplary patience 
Under all sorts of boring, at all sorts of hours. 
From all sorts of desperate persons, than ours. 
Not to speak of our j^apers, our state legislatures. 
And other such trials for sensitive natures. 
Just look for a moment at Congress, — appalled. 
My fancy shrinks back from the phantom it called ; 
Why, there 's scarcely a member unworthy to frown 
^Neath what Fourier nicknames the Boreal crown ; 
Only think what that infinite bore-pow'r could do 
If applied with a utilitarian view ; 
Suppose, for example, we shipped it with care 
To Sahara's great desert and let it bore there. 
If they held one short session and did nothing else, 
They 'd fill the whole waste with Artesian wells. 
But 't is time now with pen phonographic to follow 
Through some more of his sketches our laughing 
Apollo : — 

" There comes Harry Franco, and, as he draws near. 
You find that 's a smile which you took for a sneer ; 
One half of him contradicts t' other, his wont 
Is to say very sharp things and do very blunt ; 



208 A FABLE FOR THE CRITICS. 

His manner 's as hard as his feelings are tender. 
And a sortie he '11 make when he means to surrender ; 
He '^ in joke half the time when he seems to be 

sternest. 
When he seems to be joking, be sure he 's in earnest ; 
He has common sense in a way that 's uncommon. 
Hates humbug and cant, loves his friends like a 

woman. 
Builds his dislikes of cards and his friendships of oak. 
Loves a prejudice better than aught but a joke, 
Is half upright Quaker, half downright Come-outer, 
Loves freedom too well to go stark mad about her, 
Quite artless himself is a lover of Art, 
Shuts you out of his secrets and into his heart, 
And though not a poet, yet all must admire 
In his letters of Pinto his skill on the liar. 

'* There comes Poe with his raven, like Barnaby 
Rudge, 
Three-fifths of him genius and two-fifths sheer fudge. 
Who talks like a book of iambs and pentameters. 
In a way to make people of common-sense damn metres. 
Who has written some things quite the best of their 

kind 
But the heart somehow seems all squeezed out by the 

mind. 
Who — but hey-day ! What 's this ? Messieurs Mat- 
thews and Poe, 
You must n't fling mud-balls at Longfellow so. 
Does it make a man worse that his character 's such 
As to make his friends love him (as you think) too 

much ? 
Why, there is not a bard at this moment alive 



A FABLE FOR THE CRITICS. 209 

More willing than he that his fellows should thrive ; 
While you are abusing him thus, even now 
He would help either one of you out of a slough ; 
You may say that he 's smooth and all that till you 're 

hoarse, 
But remember that elegance also is force ; 
After polishing granite as much as you will. 
The heart keeps its tough old persistency still ; 
Deduct all you can that still keeps you at bay, — 
Why, he '11 live till men weary of Collins and Gray ; 
I 'm not over-fond of Greek metres in English, 
To me rhyme 's a gain, so it be not too jinglish, 
And your modern hexameter verses are no more 
Like Greek ones than sleek Mr. Pope is like Homer ; 
As the roar of the sea to the coo of a pigeon is. 
So, compared to your moderns, sounds old Melesigenes ; 
I may be too partial, the reason, perhaps, o' 't is 
That I 've heard the old blind man recite his own 

rhapsodies. 
And my ear with that music impregnate may be. 
Like the poor exiled shell with the soul of the sea. 
Or as one can't bear Strauss when his nature is cloven 
To its deeps within deeps by the stroke of Beethoven ; 
But, set that aside, and 't is truth that I speak. 
Had Theocritus written in English, not Greek, 
I believe that his exquisite sense would scarce change 

a line 
In that rare, tender, virgin-like pastoral Evangeline. 
That 's not ancient nor modern, its place is apart 
Where time has no sway, in the realm of pure Art, 
'T is a shrine of retreat from Earth's hubbub and 

strife 
As quiet and chaste as the author's own life, 
4 



210 A FABLE FOR THE CRITICS. 

^' There comes Philothea, her face all aglow. 
She has just been dividing some poor creature^s woe. 
And can't tell which pleases her most, to relieve 
His want, or his story to hear and believe ; 
No doubt against many deep griefs she prevails. 
For her ear is the refuge of destitute tales ; 
She knows well that silence is sorrow's best food, 
And that talking draws off from the heart its black 

blood, 
So she '11 listen with patience and let you unfold 
Your bundle of rags as ^t were pure cloth of gold, 
Which, indeed, it all turns to as soon as she's touched it. 
And, (to borrow a phrase from the nursery,) muclied it. 
She has such a musical taste, she will go 
Any distance to hear one who draws a long bow ; 
She will swallow a wonder by njere might and main 
And thinks it geometry's fault if she's fain 
To consider things flat, inasmuch as they 're plain ; 
Facts with her are accomplished, as Frenchmen would 

say. 
They will prove all she wishes them to — either way, 
And, as fact lies on this side or that, we must try, 
If we're seeking the truth, to find where it don't lie ; 
I was telling her once of a marvellous aloe 
That for thousands of years had looked spindling and 

sallow. 
And, though nursed by the fruitfullest powers of mud. 
Had never vouchsafed e'en so much as a bud. 
Till its owner remarked as a sailor, you know. 
Often will in a calm, that it never would blow. 
For he wished to exhibit the plant, and designed 
That its blowing should help him in raising the wind ; 
At last it was told him that if he should water 



A FABLE FOR THE CRITICS. 211 

Its roots with the blood of his unmarried daughter, 

(Who was born, as her mother, a Calvinist said. 

With a Baxter's effectual call on her head,) 

It would blow as the obstinate breeze did when by a 

Like decree of her father died Iphigenia ; 

At first he declared he himself would be blowed 

Ere his conscience with such a foul crime he would load 

But the thought, coming oft, grew less dark than 

before, 
And he mused, as each creditor knocked at his door. 
If this were but done they would dun me no more ; 
I told Philothea his struggles and doubts, 
And how he considered the ins and the outs 
Of the visions he had, and the dreadful dyspepsy. 
How he went to the seer that lives at Po'keepsie, 
How the seer advised him to sleep on it first 
And to read his big volume in case of the worst. 
And further advised he should pay him five dollars 
For writing ^Utttt ^ViXdy on his wristbands and collars ; 
Three years and ten days these dark words he had studied 
When the daughter was missed,and the aloe had budded ; 
I told how he watched it grow large and more large. 
And wondered how much for the show he should charge. 
She had listened with utter indifference to this, till 
I told how it bloomed, and discharging its pistil 
With an aim the Eumenides dictated, shot 
The botanical filicide dead on the spot ; 
It had blown, but he reaped not his horrible gains, 
For it blew with such force as to blow out his brains. 
And the crime was blown also, because on the wad. 
Which was paper, was writ * Visitation of God,' 
As well as a thrilling account of the deed 
Which the coroner kindly allowed me to read. 



212 A FABLE FOR THE CRITICS: 

'^ Well, my friend took this story up just, to be sure, 
As one might a poor foundling that 's laid at one's door 
She combed it and washed it and clothed it and fed it, 
And as if 't were her own child most tenderly bred it, 
Laid the scene (of the legend, I mean,) faraway a- 
-mong the green vales underneath Himalaya. 
And by artist-like touches, laid on here. and there, 
Made the whole thing so touching, I frankly declare 
I have read it all thrice, and, perhaps I am weak. 
But I found every time there were tears on my cheek. 

'^ The pole, science tells us, the magnet controls, 
But she is a magnet to emigrant Poles, 
And folks with a mission that nobody knows. 
Throng thickly about her as bees round a rose ; 
She can fill up the carets in such, make their scope 
Converge to some focus of rational hope. 
And, with sympathies fresh as the morning, their 

gall 
Can transmute into honey, — but this is not all ; 
Not only for those she has solace, oh, say. 
Vice's desperate nursling adrift in Broadway, 
Who clingest, with all that is left of thee human, 
To the last slender spar from the wreck of the woman. 
Hast thou not found one shore where those tired droop- 
ing feet 
Could reach firm mother-earth, one full heart on whose 

beat 
The soothed head in silence reposing could hear 
The chimes of far childhood throb thick on the ear ? 
Ah, there 's many a beam from the fountain of day 
That to reach us unclouded, must pass, on its way. 
Through the soul of a woman, and hers is wide ope 



A FABLE FOR THE CRITICS. ^13 

To the influence of Heaven as the blue eyes of Hope ; 

Yes, a great soul is hers, one that dares to go in 

To the prison, the slave-hut, the alleys of sin, 

And to bring into each, or to find there, some line 

Of the never completely out-trampled divine ; 

If her heart at high floods swamps her brain now and 

then, 
'T is but richer for that when the tide ebbs agen, 
As, after old Nile has subsided, his plain 
Overflows with a second broad deluge of grain ! 
What a wealth would it bring to the narrow and sour 
Could they be as a Child but for one little hour ! 



<< 



What ! Irving ? thrice welcome, warm heart anc^ 

fine brain. 
You bring back the happiest spirit from Spain, 
And the gravest sweet humor, that ever w^ere there 
Since Cervantes met death in his gentle despair ; 
Nay, don't be embarrassed, nor look so beseeching, — 
I sha'n't run directly against my own preaching. 
And, having just laughed at their Raphaels and 

Dantes, 
Go to setting you np beside matchless Cervantes ; 
But allow me to speak what I honestly feel, — 
To a true poet-heart add the fun of Dick Steele, 
Throw in all of Addison, mums the chill. 
With the whole of that partnership's stock and good 

will. 
Mix well, and while stirring, hum o'er, as a spell. 
The fine old English Gentleman, simmer it well. 
Sweeten just to your own private liking, then strain. 
That only the finest and clearest remain, 
Let it stand out of doors till a soul it receives 



214 A FABLE FOR THE CRITICS. 

From the warm lazy sun loitering down through green 
leaves, 

And you '11 find a choice nature, not wholly deserv- 
ing 

A name either English or Yankee, — just Irving. 

^' There goes, — but stet nofninis umbra, — his name 
You '11 be glad enough, some day or other, to claim, 
And will all crowd about him and swear that you knew 

him 
If some English hack-critic should chance to review 

him ; 
The old porcos ante ne projiciatis 
Margaritas, for him you have verified gratis ; 
What matters his name ? Why, it may be Sylvester, 
Judd, Junior, or Junius, Ulysses, or Nestor, 
For aught / know or care ; H is enough that I look 
On the author of ' Margaret,' the first Yankee book 
With the soul of Down East in 't, and things farther 

East, 
As far as the threshold of morning, at least. 
Where awaits the fair dawn of the simple and true, 
Of the day that comes slowly to make all things new. 
^T has a smack of pine woods, of bare field and bleak 

hill 
Such as only the breed of the Mayflower could till. 
The Puritan 's shown in it, tough to the core. 
Such as prayed, smiting Agag on red Marston moor ; 
With an unwilling humor, half-choked by the drouth 
In brown hollows about the inhospitable mouth ; 
With a soul full of poetry, though it has qualms 
About finding a happiness out of the Psalms ; 
Full of tenderness, too, though it shrinks in the dark, 



A FABLE FOR THE CRITICS. 215 

Hamadryad-like, under the coarse, shaggy bark ; 
That sees visions, knows wrestlings of God with the 

Will, 
And has its own Sinais and thunderings still." — 

Here, — " Forgive me, Apollo," I cried, " while I 

pour 
My heart out to my birth-place : 0, loved more and 

more 
Dear Baystate, from whose rocky bosom thy sons 
Should suck milk, strong-will-giving, brave such as 

runs 
In the veins of old Graylock, — who is it that dares 
Call thee pedler, a soul wrapt in bank-books and shares ? 
It is false ! She's a Poet ! I see, as I write. 
Along the far railroad the steam-snake glide white, 
The cataract-throb of her mill-hearts I hear. 
The swift strokes of trip-hammers weary my ear, 
Sledges ring upon anvils, through logs the saw screams. 
Blocks swing up to their place, beetles drive home the 

beams : — 
It is songs such as these that she croons to the din 
Of her fast-flying shuttles, year out and year in, 
"While from earth's farthest corner there comes not a 

breeze 
But wafts her the buzz of her gold-gleaning bees : 
What though those horn hands have as yet found small 

time 
For painting and sculpture and music and rhyme ? 
These will come in due order, the need that pressed 

sorest 
Was to vanquish the seasons, the ocean, the forest. 
To bridle and harness the rivers, the steam, 



216 A FABLE FOR THE CRITICS. 

Making that whirl her mill-wheels, this tug in her 

team, 
To vassalize old tyrant Winter, and make 
Him delve surlily for her on river and lako ; — 
When this New World was parted, she strove not to 

shirk 
Her lot in the heirdom, the tough, silent Work, 
The hero-share ever, from Herakles down 
To Odin, the Earth's iron sceptre and crown ; 
Yes, thou dear, noble Mother ! if ever men's praise 
Could be claimed for creating heroical lays, 
Thou hast won it ; if ever the laurel divine 
Crowned the Maker and Builder, that glory is thine ! 
Thy songs are right epic, they tell how this rude 
Rock-rib of our earth here was tamed and subdued ; 
Thou hast written them plain on the face of the 

planet 
In brave, deathless letters of iron and granite ; 
Thou hast printed them deep for all time ; they are 

set 
From the same runic type-fount and alphabet 
With thy stout Berkshire hills and the arms of thy 

Bay,— 
They are staves from the burly old Mayflower lay. 
If the drones of the Old World, in querulous ease. 
Ask thy Art and thy Letters, point proudly to these. 
Or, if they deny these are Letters and Art, 
Toil on with the same old invincible heart ; 
Thou art rearing the pedestal broad-based and grand 
Whereon the fair shapes of the Artist shall stand. 
And creating, through labors undaunted and long, 
The true theme for all Sculpture and Painting and 

Song ! 



A FABLE FOR THE CRITICS. 217 

^' But my good mother Baystate wants no praise of 
mine. 
She learned from her mother a precept divine 
About something that butters no parsnips, hev forte 
In another direction lies, work is her sport, 
(Though she '11 curtsey and set her cap straight, that 

she will. 
If you talk about Plymouth and one Bunker's hill.) 
The dear, notable good wife ! by this time of night. 
Her hearth is swept clean, and her fire burning bright. 
And she sits in a chair (of home plan and make) rock- 
ing. 
Musing much, all the while, as she darns on a stock- 
ing. 
Whether turkeys will come pretty high next Thanks- 
giving, 
Whether flour '11 be so dear, for as sure as she 's 

living, 
She will use rye-and-injun then, whether the pig 
By this time ain't got pretty tolerable big. 
And whether to sell it outright will be best. 
Or to smoke hams and shoulders and salt down the 

rest, — 
At this minute, she'd swop all my verses, ah, cruel ! 
For the last patent stove that is saving of fuel ; 
So I'll just let Apollo go on, for his phiz 
Shows I've kept him awaiting too long as it is.'* 

'^ If our friend, there, who seems a reporter, is 
through 
With his burst of emotion, our theme we '11 pursue," 
Said Apollo : some smiled, and, indeed, I must own 
There was something sarcastic, perhaps, in his tone ; — 



218 A FABLE FOR THE CRITICS. 

"There 's Holmes, who is matchless among you for 

wit ; 
A Leyden-jar always full-charged, from which flit 
The electrical tingles of hit after hit ; 
In long poems 't is painful sometimes and invites 
A thought of the way the new Telegraph writes, 
Which pricks down its little sharp sentences spitefully 
As if you got more than you 'd title to rightfully. 
And if it were hoping its wild father Lightning 
Would flame in for a second and give you a frightening. 
He has perfect sway of what I call a sham metre, 
But many admire it, the English hexameter. 
And Campbell, I think, wrote most commonly worse, 
With less nerve, swing, and fire in the same kind of verse. 
Nor e'er achieved aught in 't so worthy of praise 
As the tribute of Holmes to the grand Marseillaise. 
You went crazy last year over Bulwer's New Timon ; — 
Why, if B., to the day of his dying, should rhyme on. 
Heaping verses on verses and tomes upon tomes. 
He could ne'er reach the best point and vigor of 

Holmes. 
His are just the fine hands, too, to weave you a lyric 
Full of fancy, fun, feeling, or spiced with satiric 
In so kindly a measure, that nobody knows 
What to do but e'en join in the laugh, friends and foes. 

" There is Lowell, who 's striving Parnassus to climb 
With a whole bale of isms tied together with rhyme. 
He might get on alone, spite of brambles and boulders. 
But he can't with that bundle he has on his shoulders. 
The top of the hill he will ne'er come nigh reaching 
Till he learns the distinction 'twixt singing and preach- 
ing ; 



A FABLE FOR THE CRITICS. 219 

His lyre has some chords that would ring pretty well. 
But he ^d rather by half make a drum of the shell, 
And rattle away till he 's old as Methusalem, 
At the head of a march to the last new Jerusalem. 

" There goes Halleck whose Fanny 's a pseudo Don 
Juan, 
With the wickedness out that gave salt to the true one. 
He 's a wit, though, I hear, of the very first order. 
And once made a pun on the words soft Recorder ; 
More than this, he 's a very great poet, I 'm told. 
And has had his works published in crimson and gold, 
With something they call ' Illustrations,' to wit. 
Like those with which Chapman obscured Holy Writ,^ 
Which are said to illustrate, because, as I view it. 
Like luciis a non, they precisely don't do it ; 
Let a man who can write what himself understands 
Keep clear, if he can, of designing men's hands. 
Who bury the sense, if there 's any worth having. 
And then very honestly call it engraving. 
But, to quit badinage, which there is n't much wat in, 
No doubt Halleck 's better than all he has written ; 
In his verse a clear glimpse you will frequently find, 
If not of a great, of a fortunate mind. 
Which contrives to be true to its natural loves 
In a world of back-offices, ledgers and stoves. 
When his heart breaks away from the brokers and banks. 
And kneels in its own private shrine to give thanks. 
There 's a genial manliness in him that earns 
Our sincerest respect, (read, for instance, his '^ Burns ") 
And we can't but regret (seek excuse where we may) 
That so much of a man has been peddled away. 

1 (Cuts rightly called wooden, as all must admit. ) 



220 A FABLE FOR THE CRITICS. 

'* But what 's that .? a mass-meeting ? No, there 

come in lots 
The American Disraelis, Bulwers, and Scotts, 
And in short the American everything-elses. 
Each charging the others with envies and jealousies ; — 
By the way, ^t is a fact that displays what profusions 
Of all kinds of greatness bless free institutions, 
That while the Old World has produced barely eight 
Of such poets as all men agree to call great. 
And of other great characters hardly a score, 
(One might safely say less than that rather than more,) 
With you every year a whole crop is begotten. 
They ^re as much of a staple as corn, or as cotton ; 
Why, there's scarcely a huddle of log-huts and shanties 
That has not brought forth its own Miltons and Dantes ; 
I myself know ten Byrons, one Coleridge, three Shelleys, 
Two Raphaels, six Titians, (I think) one Apelles, 
Leonardos and Rubenses plenty as lichens. 
One (but that one is plenty) American Dickens, 
A whole flock of Lambs, any number of Tennysons, — 
In short, if a man has the luck to have any sons. 
He may feel pretty certain that one out of twain 
Will be some very great person over again. 
There is one inconvenience in all this which lies 
In the fact that by contrast we estimate size,* 
And, when there are none except Titans, great stature 
Is only a simple proceeding of nature. 
What puff the strained sails of your praise shall you 

furl at, if 

^ That is in most cases we do, but not all, 
Past a doubt, there are men who are innately small, 
Such as Blank, who, without being 'minished a tittle, 
Might stand for a type of the Absolute Little. 



A FABLE FOR THE CRITICS. 221 

The calmest degree that you know is superlative ? 
At Rome, all whom Charon took into his wherry must, 
As a matter of course, be well issimtised and errimused, 
A Greek, too, could feel, while in that famous boat he 

tost, 
That his friends would take care he was t^To^ed and 

a>raro?ed. 

And formerly we, as through grave-yards we past, 
Thought the world went from bad to worse fearfully 

fast; 
Let us glance for a moment, 't is well worth the 

pains, 
And note what an average grave-yard contains ; 
There lie levellers levelled, duns done up themselves. 
There are booksellers finally laid on their shelves. 
Horizontally there lie upright politicians, 
Dose-a-dose with their patients sleep faultless phy- 
sicians. 
There are slave-drivers quietly whipt under-ground. 
There book-binders, done up in boards, are fast 

bound. 
There card-players wait till the last trump be played. 
There all the choice spirits get finally laid. 
There the babe that ^s unborn is supplied with a 

berth. 
There men without legs get their six feet of earth. 
There lawyers repose, each wrapt up in his case. 
There seekers of office are sure of a place. 
There defendant and plaintiff get equally cast. 
There shoemakers quietly stick to the last. 
There brokers at length become silent as stocks. 
There stage-drivers sleep without quitting their box. 
And so forth and so forth and so forth and so on. 



222 A FABLE FOR THE CRITICS. 

With this kind of stuff one might endlessly go on ; 

To come to the point, I may safely assert you 

Will find in each yard every cardinal virtue ; ' 

Each has six truest patriots : four discoverers of 

ether. 
Who never had thought on ^t nor mentioned it 

either : 
Ten poets, the greatest who ever wrote rhyme : 
Two hundred and forty first men of their time : 
One person whose portrait just gave the least hint 
Its original had a most horrible squint : 
One critic, most (what do they call it ?) reflective. 
Who never had used the phrase ob- or subjective : 
Forty fathers of Freedom, of whom twenty bred 
Their sons for the rice-swamps, at so much a head. 
And their daughters for — faugh ! thirty mothers of 

Gracchi : 
Non-resistants who gave many a spiritual black-eye : 
Eight true friends of their kind, one of whom was a 

jailor : 
Four captains almost as astounding as Taylor : 
Two dozen of Italy's exiles who shoot us his 
Kaisership daily, stern pen-and-ink Brutuses, 
Who, in Yankee back-parlors, with crucified smile,' 
Mount serenely their country's funereal pile : 
Ninety-nine Irish heroes, ferocious rebellers 
'Gainst the Saxon in cis-marine garrets and cellars. 
Who shake their dread fists o'er the sea and all 

that, — 

1 (And at this just conchision will surely arrive, 

That the goodness of earth is more dead than alive.) 

2 Not forgetting their tea and their toast, though, the 

while, 



A FABLE FOR THE CRITICS. 223 

As long as a copper drops into the hat : 
Nine hundred Teutonic republicans stark 
From Vaterland^s battles just won — in the Park, 
Who the happy profession of martyrdom take 
Whenever it gives them a chance at a steak : 
Sixty-two second Washingtons : two or three Jacksons : 
And so many everythings else that it racks one's 
Poor memory too much to continue the list. 
Especially now they no longer exist ; — 
I would merely observe that you '\e taken to giving 
The puffs that belong to the dead to the living. 
And that somehow your trump-of-contemporary-doom's 

tones 
Is tuned after old dedications and tombstones/' 

Here the critic came in and a thistle presented ' — 
From a frown to a smile the god's features relented, 
As he stared at his envoy, who, swelling with pride. 
To the god's asking look, nothing daunted, replied, 
''You ''re surprised, I suppose, I was absent so long, 
But your godship respecting the lilies was wrong ; 
I hunted the garden from one end to t' other. 
And got no reward but vexation and bother. 
Till, tossed out with weeds in a corner to wither. 
This one lily I found and made haste to bring hither." 

'^ Did he think I had given him a book to review ? 
I ought to have known what the fellow would do," 
Muttered Phoebus aside, ^' for a thistle will pass 
Beyond doubt for the queen of all flowers with an ass ; 
He has chosen in just the same way as he 'd choose 

1 Turn back now to page — goodness only knows what, 
And take a fresh hold on the thread of my plot. 



224 A FABLE FOR THE CRITICS. 

His specimens out of the books he reviews ; 
And now, as this offers an excellent text, 
I '11 give 'em some brief hints on criticism next." 
So, musing a moment, he turned to the crowd. 
And, clearing his voice, spoke as follows aloud, — 

^' My friends, in the happier days of the muse. 
We were luckily free from such things as reviews ; 
Then naught came between with its fog to make clearer 
The heart of the poet to that of his hearer ; 
Then the poet brought heaven to the people, and they 
Felt that they, too, were poets in hearing his lay ; 
Then the poet was prophet, the past in his soul 
Pre-created the future, both parts of one whole ; 
Then for him there was nothing too great or too small, 
For one natural deity sanctified all \^ 
Then the bard owned no clipper and meter of moods 
Save the spirit of silence that hovers and broods 
O'er the seas and the mountains, the rivers and woods ; 
He asked not earth's verdict, forgetting the clods, 
His soul soared and sang to an audience of gods ; 
'T was for them that he measured the thought and the 

line. 
And shaped for their vision the perfect design, 
"With as glorious a foresight, a balance as true. 
As swung out the worlds in the infinite blue ; 
Then a glory and greatness invested man's heart. 
The universal, which now stands estranged and apart. 
In the free individual moulded, was Art ; 
Then the forms of the Artist seemed thrilled with de- 
sire 
For something, as yet unattained, fuller, higher. 
As once with her lips, lifted hands, and eyes listening. 



A FABLE FOR THE CRITICS. 225 

And her whole upward soul in her countenance glisten- 
ing, 
Eurydice stood — like a beacon unfired, 

Which, once touched with flame, will leap heav'nward 

inspired — 
And waited with answering kindle to mark 
The first gleam of Orpheus that pained the red Dark ; 
Then painting, song, sculpture, did more than relieve 
The need that men feel to create and believe. 
And as, in all beauty, who listens with love, 
Hears these words oft repeated — ' beyond and above,' 
So these seemed to be but the visible sign 
Of the grasp of the soul after things more divine ; 
They were ladders the Artist erected to climb 
O^er the narrow horizon of space and of time, 
And we see there^the footsteps by which men had 

gained f 
To the one rapturous glimpse of the never-attained. 
As shepherds could erst sometimes trace in the sod 
The last spurning print of a sky-cleaving god. 

'^ But now, on the poet's dis-privacied moods 
"With do this and do that the pert critic intrudes ; 
While he thinks he 's been barely fulfilling his duty 
To interpret 'twixt men and their own sense of beauty, 
And has striven, while others sought honor or pelf, 
To make his kind happy as he was himself. 
He finds he 's been guilty of horrid offences 
In all kinds of moods, numbers, genders, and tenses ; 
He 's been oh and 5?^^jective, what Kettle calls Pot. 
Precisely, at all events, what he ought not. 
You have done this, says one judge ; done that, says 

another ; 

IS 



226 ^ FABLE FOR THE CRITICS. 

Yolc should have done this, grumbles one ; that, says 

t' other ; 
Never mind what he touches, one shrieks out Tahoo ! 
And while he is wondering what he shall do. 
Since each suggests opposite topics for song. 
They all shout together youWe right ! or youWe wrong ! 

" Nature fits all her children with something to do. 
He who would write and can^t write, can surely review, 
Can set up a small booth as critic and sell us his 
Petty conceit and his pettier jealousies ; 
Thus a lawyer's apprentice, just out of his teens. 
Will do for the Jeffrey of six magazines ; 
Having read Johnson's lives of the poets half through. 
There 's nothing on earth he 's not competent to ; 
He reviews with as much nonchalance as he whistles, — 
He goes through a book and just picks out the thistles', 
It matters not whether he blame or commend. 
If he 's bad as a foe, he 's far worse as a friend ; 
Let an author but write what's above his poor scope. 
And he '11 go to work gravely and twist up a rope. 
And, inviting the world to see punishment done. 
Hang himself up to bleach in the wind and the sun ; 
'T is delightful to see, when a man comes along 
Who has any thing in him peculiar and strong, 
Every cockboat that swims clear its fierce (pop-) gun- 
deck at him 
And make as he passes its ludicrous Peck at him," — 

Here Miranda came up and began, ^* As to that," — 
Apollo at once seized his gloves, cane, and hat. 
And seeing the place getting rapidly cleared, 
I, too, snatched my notes and forthwith disappeared. 



THE VISION OF SIR LAUNFAL. 



PRELUDE TO PART FIRST. 

Over his keys the musing organist, 

Beginning doubtfully and far away. 
First lets his fingers wander as they list. 

And builds a bridge from Dreamland for his lay ; 
Then, as the touch of his loved instrument 

Gives hope and fervor, nearer draws his theme, 
First guessed by faint auroral flushes sent 

Along the wavering vista of his dream. 



Not only around our infancy 
Doth heaven with all its splendors lie ; 
Daily, with souls that cringe and blot. 
We Sinais climb and know it not ; 

Over our manhood bend the skies ; 

Against our fallen and traitor lives 
The great winds utter prophecies ; 

With our faint hearts the mountain strives ; 
Its arms outstretched, the druid wood 

Waits with its benedicite ; 
And to our age^s drowsy blood 

Still shouts the inspiring sea. 
Earth gets its price for what Earth gives us ; 

The beggar is taxed for a corner to die in, 

227 



^28 T^HE VISION OF SIR LAUNFAL. 

The priest hath his fee who comes and shrives us, 

We bargain for the graves we lie in ; 
At the Devil's booth are all things sold, 
Each ounce of dross costs its ounce of gold ; 

For a cap and bells our lives we pay. 
Bubbles we earn with a whole soul's tasking ; 

'T is heaven alone that is given away, 
'T is only God may be had for the asking ; 
There is no price set on the lavish summer ; 
And June may be had by the poorest comer. 

And what is so rare as a day in June ? 

Then, if ever, come perfect days ; 
Then Heaven tries the earth if it be in tune. 

And over it softly her warm ear lays : 
Whether we look, or whether we listen. 
We hear life murmur, or see it glisten ; 
Every clod feels a stir of might. 

An instinct within it that reaches and towers. 
And, grasping blindly above it for light. 

Climbs to a soul in grass and flowers ; 
The flush of life may well be seen 

Thrilling back over hills and valleys ; 
The cowslip startles in meadows green. 

The buttercup catches the sun in its chalice, 
And there 's never a leaf or a blade too mean 

To be some happy creature's palace ; 
The little bird sits at his door in the sun, 

Atilt like a blossom among the leaves, 
And lets his illumined being o'errun 

With the deluge of summer it receives ; 
His mate feels the eggs beneath her wings. 
And the heart in her dumb breast flutters -and sings ; 



THE VISION OF SIR LAUNFAL. 229 

He sings to the wide world, and she to her nest, — 
In the nice ear of Nature which song is the best ? , 

Now is the high-tide of the year, -U. ivji-vx_ 

And whatever of life hath ebbed away 
Comes flooding back, with a ripply cheer. 

Into every bare inlet and creek and bay ; 
Now the heart is so full that a drop overfills it, 
We are happy now because God so wills it ; 
No matter how barren the past may have been, 
'T is enough for us now that the leaves are green ; 
We sit in the warm shade and feel right well 
How the sap creeps up and the blossoms swell ; 
We may shut our eyes, but we cannot help knowing 
That skies are clear and grass is growing ; 
The breeze comes whispering in our ear, 
That dandelions are blossoming near. 

That maize has sprouted, that streams are flowing. 
That the river is bluer than the sky, 
That the robin is plastering his house hard by ; 
And if the breeze kept the good news back. 
For other couriers we should not lack ; 

We could guess it all by yon heifer's lowing, — 
And hark ! how clear bold chanticleer. 
Warmed with the new wine of the year, 

Tells all in his lusty crowing ! 

Joy comes, grief goes, we know not how ; . 
Everything is happy now. 

Everything is upward striving ; 
'T is easy now for the heart to be trne 
As for grass to be green or skies to be blue, — 

'T is the natural way of living : 



230 THE VISION OF SIR LAUNFAL. 

Who knows whither the clonds have fled ? 

In the unscarred heaven they leave no wake ; 
And the eyes forget the tears they have shed, 

The heart forgets its sorrow and ache ; 
The soul partakes the season's youth, 

And the sulphurous rifts of passion and woe 
Lie deep 'neath a silence pure and smooth, 

Like burnt-out craters healed with snow. 
What wonder if Sir Launfal now 
Remembered the keeping of his vow ? 

PART FIRST. 

I. 

" My golden spurs now bring to me. 

And bring to me my richest mail. 
For to-morrow I go over land and sea 

In search of the Holy Grail ; 
Shall never a bed for me be spread. 
Nor shall a pillow be under my head. 
Till I begin my vow to keep ; 
Here on the rushes will I sleep. 
And perchance there may come a vision true 
Ere day create the world anew." 

Slowly Sir LaunfaFs eyes grew dim. 

Slumber fell like a cloud on him. 
And into his soul the vision flew. 

11. 

The crows flapped over by twos and threes. 
In the pool drowsed the cattle up to their knees. 
The little birds sang as if it were 
The one day of summer in all the year, 



THE VISION OF SIR LAUNFAL. 231 

• 

And the very leaves seemed to sing on the trees : 

The castle alone in the landscape lay 

Like an outpost of winter, dull and gray ; 

'T was the proudest hall in the North Countree, 

And never its gates might opened be, 

Save to lord or lady of high degree ; 

Summer besieged it on every side. 

But the churlish stone her assaults defied ; 

She could not scale the chilly wall. 

Though around it for leagues her pavilions tall 

Stretched left and right. 

Over the hills and out of sight ; 

Green and broad was every tent. 

And out of each a murmur went 
Till the breeze fell off at night. 

III. 

The drawbridge dropped with a surly clang. 
And through the dark arch a charger sprang, 
Bearing Sir Launfal, the maiden knight. 
In his gilded mail, that flamed so bright 
It seemed the dark castle had gathered all 
Those shafts the fierce sun had shot over its wall 

In his siege of three hundred summers long. 
And, binding them all in one blazing sheaf. 

Had cast them forth : so, young and strong. 
And lightsome as a locust-leaf. 
Sir Launfal flashed forth in his unscarred mail. 
To seek in all climes for the Holy Grail. 

IV. 

It was morning on hill and stream and tree, 
And morning in the young knight's heart ; 



232 THE VISION OF SIR LAUNFAL. 

« 

Only the castle moodily 

Rebuffed the gifts of the sunshine free. 

And gloomed by itself apart ; 
The season brimmed all other things up 
Full as the rain fills the pitcher-plant's cup. 

V. 

As Sir Launfal made morn through the darksome gate. 

He was ware of a leper, crouched by the same. 
Who begged with his hand and moaned as he sate ; 

And a loathing over Sir Launfal came ; 
The sunshine went out of his soul with a thrill. 

The flesh 'neath his armor did shrink and crawl, 
And midway its leap his heart stood still 

Like a frozen waterfall ; 
For this man, so foul and bent of stature. 
Rasped harshly against his dainty nature. 
And seemed the one blot on the summer morn, — 
So he tossed him a piece of gold in scorn. 

VI. 

The leper raised not the gold from the dust : 
^' Better to me the poor man's crust. 
Better the blessing of the poor. 
Though I turn me empty from his door ; 
That is no true alms which the hand can hold ; 
He gives nothing but worthless gold 

Who gives from a sense of duty ; 
But he who gives but a slender mite, 
And gives to that which is out of sight, 

That thread of the all-sustaining Beauty 
Which runs through all and doth all unite, — 



The vision o^ sir latjnfal. 233 

The hand cannot clasp the whole of his alms. 

The heart outstretches its eager palms, 

For a god goes with it and makes it store 

To the soul that was starving in darkness before." 

PRELUDE TO PART SECOND. , y^W- 

Down swept the chill wind from the mountain peak. 
From the snow five thousand summers old ; 

On open wold and hill-top bleak 
It had gathered all the cold. 

And whirled it like sleet on the wanderer's cheek 

It carried a shiver everywhere 

From the unleafed boughs and pastures bare ; 

The little brook heard it and built a roof 

'Neath which he could house him, winter-proof ; 

All night by the white stars' frosty gleams 

He groined his arches and matched his beams ; 

Slender and clear were his crystal spars 

As the lashes of light that trim the stars : 

He sculptured every summer delight 

In his halls and chambers out of sight ; 

Sometimes his tinkling waters slipt 

Down through a frost-leaved forest-crypt. 

Long, sparkling aisles of steel-stemmed trees 

Bending to counterfeit a breeze ; 

Sometimes the roof no fretwork knew 

But silvery mosses that downward grew ; 

Sometimes it was carved in sharp relief 

With quaint arabesques of ice-fern leaf ; 

Sometimes it was simply smooth and clear 

For the gladness of heaven to shine through, and here 

He had caught the nodding bulrush-tops 

And liung them thickly with diamond drops. 



234 THE VISION OF SIR LAUNFAL. 

That crystalled the beams of moon and sun, 

And made a star of every one : 

No mortal builder's most rare device 

Could match this winter-palace of ice ; 

'T was as if every image that mirrored lay 

In his depths serene through the summer day. 

Each fleeting shadow of earth and sky, 

Lest the happy model should be lost. 
Had been mimicked in fairy masonry 

By the elfin builders of the frost. , p ^jj 

Within the hall are song and laughter. 

The cheeks of Christmas grow red and jolly, 
And sprouting is every corbel and rafter 

With lightsome green of ivy and holly ; 
Through the deep gulf of the chimney wide 
Wallows the Yule-log's roaring tide ; 
The broad flame-pennons droop and flap 

And belly and tug as a flag in the wind ; 
Like a locust shrills the imprisoned sap. 

Hunted to death in its galleries blind ; 
And swift little troops of silent sparks, 

Now pausing, now scattering away as in fear. 
Go threading the soot-forest's tangled darks 

Like herds of startled deer. 

But the wind without was eager and sharp. 
Of Sir Launfal's gray hair it makes a harp, 
And rattles and wrings 
The icy strings, 
Singing, in dreary monotone, 
A Christmas carol of its own, 
Whose burden still, as he might guess, 



THE VISION OF SIR LAUNFAL. 235 

W'as — '' Shelterless, shelterless, shelterless !" 
The voice of the seneschal flared like a torch 
As he shouted the wanderer away from the porch, 
And he sat in the gateway and saw all night 
The great hall-fire, so cheery and bold, 
Through the window-slits of the castle old, 
Build out its piers of ruddy light 
Against the drift of the cold. 

PART SECOND. 

I. 

There was never a leaf on a bush or tree, 
The bare boughs rattled shudderingly ; 
The river was dumb and could not speak. 

For the frost's swift shuttles its shroud had spun : 
A single crow on the tree-top bleak 

From his shining feathers shed off the cold sun ; 
Again it was morning, but shrunk and cold, 
As if her veins were sapless and old. 
And she rose up decrepitly 
For a last dim look at earth and sea. 

II. 

Sir Launfal turned from his own hard gate. 

For another heir in his earldom sate ; 

An old, bent man, worn out and frail. 

He came back from seeking the Holy Grail ; 

Little he recked of his earldom's loss, 

No more on his surcoat was blazoned the cross. 

But deep in his soul the sign he wore. 

The badge of the suffering and the poor. 



236 THE VISION OF SIR LAUNFAL. 

III. 

Sir LaunfaFs raiment thin and spare 

Was idle mail Against the barbed air. 

For it was just at the Christmas time ; 

So he mused, as he sat, of a sunnier clime. 

And sought for a shelter from cold and snow 

In the light and warmth of long ago ; 

He sees the snake-like caravan crawl 

O'er the edge of the desert, black and small, 

Then nearer and nearer, till, one by one, 

He can count the camels in the sun. 

As over the red-hot sands they pass 

To where, in its slender necklace of grass, 

The little spring laughed and leapt in the shade. 

And with its own self like an infant played. 

And waved its signal of palms. 

IV. 

'' For Christ's sweet sake, I beg an alms ; " — 

The happy camels may reach the spring, 

But Sir Launfal sees naught save the grewsome thing, 

The leper, lank as the rain-blanched bone. 

That cowers beside him, a thing as lone 

And white as the ice-isles of Northern seas 

In the desolate horror of his disease. 

V. 

And Sir Launfal said, — ''■ I behold in thee 

An image of Him who died on the tree ; 

Thou also hast had thy crown of thorns, — 

Thou also hast had the world's buffets and scorns, — 

And to thy life were not denied 



THE VISION OF SIR LAUNFAL. 237 

The wounds iu the hands and feet and side : 
Mild Mary's Son, acknowledge me ; 
Behold, through him, I give to thee ! " 

VI. 

Then the soul of the leper stood up in his eyes 

And looked at Sir Launfal, and straightway he 
Remembered in what a haughtier guise 

He had flung an alms to leprosie, 
When he caged his young life up in gilded mail 
And set forth in search of the Holy Grail. 
The heart within him was ashes and dust ; 
He parted in twain his single crust. 
He broke the ice on the streamlet's brink. 
And gave the leper to eat and drink, 
'T was a mouldy crust of coarse brown bread, 

'T was water out of a w^ooden bowl, — 
Yet with fine wheaten bread was the leper fed. 

And 't was red wine he drank with his thirsty soul. 

VII. 

As Sir Launfal mused with a downcast face, 

A light shone round about the place ; 

The leper no longer crouched at his side. 

But stood before him glorified, 

Shining and tall and fair and straight 

As the pillar that stood by the Beautiful Gate, — 

Himself the Gate whereby men can 

Enter the temple of God in Man. 

VIII. 

His Avords were shed softer than leaves from the pine. 
And they fell on Sir Launfal as snows on the brine. 



238 THE VISION OF SIR LAUNFAL. 

That miDgle their softness and quiet in one 

With the shaggy unrest they float down upon ; 

And the voice that was calmer than silence said, 

" Lo it is I, be not afraid ! 

In many climes, without avail, 

Thou hast spent thy life for the Holy Grail ; 

Behold, it is here, — this cup which thou 

Didst fill at the streamlet for me but now ; 

This crust is my body broken for thee. 

This water His blood that died on the tree ; 

The Holy Supper is kept, indeed. 

In whatso we share with another's need ; 

Not what we give, but what we share, — 

For the gift without the giver is bare ; 

Who gives himself with his alms feeds three, — ^ jS^ 

Himself, his hungering neighbor, and me." <> 

IX. 

Sir Launfal awoke as from a swound : — 
** The Grail in r!iy castle here is found ! 
Hang my idle armor up on the wall. 
Let it be the spider's banquet-hall ; 
He must be fenced with stronger mail 
Who would seek and find the Holy Grail.'' 

X. 

The castle gate stands open now. 

And the wanderer is welcome to the hall 

As the hangbird is to the elm-tree bough ; 
No longer scowl the turrets tall. 

The Summer's long siege at last is o'er ; 

When the first poor outcast went in at the door. 

She entered with him in disguise. 



THE VISION OF SIR LAUNFAL. 239 

And mastered the fortress by surprise ; 

There is no spot she loves so well on ground, 

She lingers and smiles there the whole year round ; 

The meanest serf on Sir Launfal's land 

Has hall and bower at his command ; 

And there 's no poor man in the North Countree 

But is lord of the earldom as much as he. 

Note. — According to the mythology of the Romancers, the 
San Greal, or Holy Grail, was the cup out of which Jesus par- 
took of the last supper with his disciples. It was brought 
into England by Joseph of Arimathea, and remained there, 
an object of pilgrimage and adoration, for many years in the 
keeping of his lineal descendants. It was incumbent upon 
those who had charge of it to be chaste in thought, word and 
deed ; but one of the keepers having broken this condition, 
the Holy Grail disappeared. From that time it was a favorite 
enterprise of the knights of Arthur's court to go in search of 
it. Sir Galahad was at last successful in finding it, as may be 
read in the seventeenth book of the Romance of King Arthur. 
Tennyson has made Sir Galahad the subject of one of the 
most exquisite of his poems. 

The plot (if I may give that name to anything so slight) of 
the foregoing poem is my own, and, to serve its purposes, I 
have enlarged the circle of competition in search of the mirac- 
ulous cup in such a manner as to include, not only other 
persons than the heroes of the Round Table, but also a period 
of time subsequent to the date of King Arthur's reign. 



APPLEDOEE. 

How looks Appledore in a storm ? 

I have seen it when its crags seemed frantic, 
Butting against the maddened Atlantic, 

When surge after surge would heap enorme, 
Cliffs of Emerald topped with snow, 
That lifted and lifted and then let go 

A great white avalanche of thunder, 
A grinding, blinding, deafening ire 

Monadnock might have trembled under ; 

And the island, whose rock-roots pierce below 
To where they are warmed with the central fire, 

You could feel its granite fibres racked. 

As it seemed to plunge with a shudder and thrill 
Eight at the breast of the swooping hill. 

And to rise again, snorting a cataract 

Of rage-froth from every cranny and ledge, 

While the sea drew its breath in hoarse and deep, 

And the next vast breaker curled its edge. 
Gathering itself for a mighty leap. 

North, east, and south there are reefs and breakers. 
You would never dream of in smooth weather, 

That toss and gore the sea for acres. 

Bellowing and gnashing and snarling together; 

Look northward where Duck Island lies. 

And over its crown you will see arise, 

Against a background of slaty skies, 
240 



APPLEDORE. 241 

A row of pillars still and white 

That glimmer and then are out of sight, 
As if the moon should suddenly kiss, 

While you crossed the dusty desert by night, 
The long colonnades of Persepolis, 
And then as sudden a darkness should follow 
To gulp the whole scene at a single swallow, 
The city's ghost, the drear brown waste. 
And the string of camels, clumsy-paced : — 
Look southward for White Island light, 

The lantern stands ninety feet o'er the tide ; 
There is first a half-mile of tumult and fight, 
Of dash and roar and tumble and fright. 

And surging bewilderment wild and wide. 
Where the breakers struggle left and right, 

Then a mile or more of rushing sea. 
And then the light-house slim and lone ; 
And whenever the whole weight of ocean is thrown 
Full and fair on White Island head, 

A great mist-jotun you will see 

Lifting himself up silently 
High and huge o'er the light-house top. 
With hands of wavering spray outspread. 

Groping after the little tower. 

That seems to shrink, and shorten and cower. 
Till the monster's arms of a sudden drop. 

And silently and fruitlessly 

He sinks again into the sea. 

You, meanwhile, where drenched you stand. 

Awaken once more to the rush and roar 
And on the rock-point tighten your hand, 
As you turij ancl see a valley deep, 
J 6 ' 



242 TO THE DANDELION. 

That was not there a moment before, 
Suck rattling down between you and a heap 

Of toppling billow, whose instant fall 

Must sink the whole island once for all — 
Or watch the silenter, stealthier seas 

Feeling their way to you more and more ; 
If they once should clutch you high as the knees 
They would whirl you down like a sprig of kelp, 
Beyond all reach of hope or help ; — 

And such in a storm is Appledore. 



TO THE DANDELION. 

Dear common flower, that grow'st beside the way. 
Fringing the dusty road with harmless gold. 

First pledge of blithesome May, 
Which children pluck, and, full of pride, uphold. 
High-hearted buccaneers, o'erjoyed that they 
An Eldorado in the grass have found, 

Which not the rich earth's ample round 
May match in wealth — thou art more dear to me 
Than all the prouder Summer-blooms may be. 

Gold such as thine ne'er drew the Spanish prow 
Through the primeval hush of Indian seas, 

Nor wrinkled the lean brow 
Of age, to rob the lover's heart of ease ; 
'Tis the Spring's largess, which she scatters now 
To rich and poor alike, with lavish hand, 

Though most hearts never understand 
To take it at God's value, but pass by 
The offered wealth with unrewarded eye. 



TO THE DANDELION. 243 

Thou art my tropics and mine Italy ; 
To look at thee unlocks a warmer clime ; 

The eyes thou givest me 
Are in the heart and heed not space or time : 
Not in mid June the golden-cuirassed bee 
Feels a more Summer-like, warm ravishment 

In the white lily's breezy tent, 
His fragrant Sybaris, than I, when first 
From the dark green thy yellow circles burst. 

Then think I of deep shadows in the grass, — 
Of meadows where in sun the cattle graze. 

Where, as the breezes pass. 
The gleaming rushes lean a thousand ways, — 
Of leaves that slumber in a cloudy mass, 
Or whiten in the wind, — of waters blue 

That from the distance sparkle through 
Some woodland gap, — and of a sky above 
Where one white cloud like a stray lamb doth move. 

My childhood's earliest thoughts are linked with thee ; 

The sight of thee calls back the robin's song. 

Who from the dark old tree 
Beside the door, sang clearly all day long. 
And I, secure in childish piety, 
Listened as if I heard an angel sing 
With news from Heaven, which he could bring 
Fresh every day to my untainted ears, 
When birds and flowers and I were happy peers. 

Thou art the type of those meek charities 
Which make up half the nobleness of life, 

Those cheap delights the wise 
Pluck from the dusty wayside of earth's strife •, 



244 TO THE DANDELION. 

Words of frank cheer^ glances of friendly eyes, 
Love's smallest coin, which yet to some may give 

The morsel that may keep alive 
A starving heart, and teach it to behold 
Some glimpse of God where all before was cold. 

Thy winged seeds, whereof the winds take care, 
Are like the words of poet and of sage 

Which through the free heaven fare, 
And, now unheeded, in another age 
Take root, and to the gladdened future bear 
That witness which the present would not heed, 

Bringing forth many a thought and deed, 
And, planted safely in the eternal sky. 
Bloom into stars which earth is guided by. 

Full of deep love thou art, yet not more full 
Than all thy common brethren of the ground. 

Wherein, were we not dull, 
Some words of highest wisdom might be found ; 
Yet earnest faith from day to day may cull 
Some syllables, which, rightly joined, can make 

A spell to soothe life's bitterest ache, 
And ope Heaven's portals, which are near us still. 
Yea, nearer ever than the gates of 111. 

How like a prodigal doth nature seem, 
When thou, for all thy gold, so common art ! 

Thou teachest me to deem 
More sacredly of every human heart. 
Since each reflects in joy its scanty gleam 
Of Heaven, and could some wondrous secret show, 

Did we but pay the love we owe, 



DARA. 245 

And with a child's undoubting wisdom look 
On all these living pages of God's book. 

But let me read thy lesson right or no, 

Of one good gift from thee my heart is sure ; 

Old I shall never grow 
While thou each year dost come to keep me pure 
With legends of my childhood ; ah, we owe 
Well more than half life's holiness to these 

Nature's first lowly influences, 
At thought of which the heart's glad doors burst ope, 
In dreariest days, to welcome peace and hope. 



DARA. 



Whei^" Persia's sceptre trembled in a hand 
Wilted by harem-heats, and all the land 

Was hovered over by those vulture ills 
That snuff decaying empire from afar. 
Then, with a nature balanced as a star, 

Dara arose, a shepherd of the hills. 

He, who had governed fleecy subjects well. 
Made his own village, by the self-same spell, 

Secure and peaceful as a guarded fold. 
Till, gathering strength by slow and wise degrees, 
Under his sway, to neighbor villages 

Order returned, and faith and justice old. 

Now, when it fortuned that a king more wise 
Endued the realm with brain and hands and eyes, 



246 DARA. 

He sought on every side men brave and just, 
And having heard the mountain-shepherd's praise, 
How he rendered the mould of elder days, 

To Dara gave a satrapy in trust. 

So Dara shepherded a province wide, 

Nor in his viceroy's sceptre took more pride 

Than in his crook before ; but Envy finds 
More soil in cities than on mountains bare. 
And the frank sun of spirits clear and rare 

Breeds poisonous fogs in low and marish minds. 

Soon it was whispered at the royal ear 

That, though wise Dara's province, year by year, 

Like a great sponge, drew wealth and plenty up. 
Yet, when he squeezed it at the king's behest. 
Some golden drops, more rich than all the rest. 

Went to the filling of his private cup. 

For proof, they said that wheresoe'er he went 
A chest, beneath whose weight the camel bent, 

AVent guarded, and no other eye had seen 
What was therein, save only Dara's own, 
Yet, when 't was opened all his tent was known 

To glow and lighten with heapt jewels' sheen. 

The king set forth for Dara's province straight, 
Where, as was fit, outside his city's gate 

The viceroy met him with a stately train ; 
And there, with archers circled, close at hand, 
A camel with the chest was seen to stand, 

The king grew red, for thus the guilt was plain. 

*' Open me now," he cried, ^^yon treasure-chest !" 
'T was done, and only a worn shepherd's vest 



TO J. F. H. 247 

Was found within ; some blushed and hung the head, 
Not Dara ; open as the sky's blue roof 
He stood, and '^ 0, my lord, behold the proof 

That I was worthy of my trust ! " he said. 

*' For ruling men, lo ! all the charm I had ; 
My soul, in those coarse vestments ever clad. 

Still to the unstained past kept true and leal, 
Still on these plains could breathe her mountain air. 
And Fortune's heaviest gifts serenely bear. 

Which bend men from the truth, and make them 
reel. 

** To govern wisely I had shown small skill 
Were I not lord of simple Dara still ; 

That sceptre kept, I cannot lose my way ! " 
Strange dew in royal eyes grew round and bright 
And thrilled the trembling lids ; before 't was night 

Two added provinces blessed Dara's sway. 



TO J. F. H. 

Nine years have slipped like hour-glass sand 

From life's fast-emptying globe away. 
Since last, dear friend, I clasped your hand, 
And lingered on the impoverished land. 
Watching the steamer down the bay. 

I held the keepsake which you gave, 

Until the dim smoke-pennon curled 
O'er the vague rim 'tween sky and wave, 
And closed the distance like a grave. 
Leaving me to the outer world ; 



248 TO J. F. H. 

The old worn world of hurry and heat, 

The young, fresh world of thought and scope ; 
While you, where silent surges fleet 
Toward far sky beaches still and sweet, 
Sunk wavering down the ocean-slope. 

Come back our ancient walks to tread. 

Old haunts of lost or scattered friends, 
Amid the Muses' factories red, 
"Where song, and smoke, and laughter sped 
The nights to proctor-hunted ends. 

Our old familiars are not laid, 

Though snapped our wands and sunk our books, 
They beckon, not to be gainsaid. 
Where, round broad meads which mowers wade, 

Smooth Charles his steel-blue sickle crooks ; 

Where, as the cloudbergs eastward blow. 
From glow to gloom the hillside shifts 

Its lakes of rye that surge and flow. 

Its plumps of orchard-trees arow. 

Its snowy white-weed's summer drifts. 

Or let us to Nantasket, there 

To wander idly as we list. 
Whether, on rocky hillocks bare. 
Sharp cedar-points, like breakers, tear 

The trailing fringes of gray mist. 

Or whether, under skies clear-blown, 
The heightening surfs with foamy din. 

Their breeze-caught forelocks backward blown 

Against old Neptune's yellow zone. 
Curl slow, and plunge forever in. 



PROMETHEUS. 249 

For years thrice three, wise Horace said, 

A poem rare let silence bind ; 
And love may ripen in the shade, 
Like ours, for nine long seasons laid 

In crypts and arches of the mind. 

That right Falernian friendship old 

Will we, to grace our feast, call up. 
And freely pour the juice of gold, 
That keeps lifers pulses warm and bold. 
Till Death shall break the empty cup. 



PROMETHEUS. 

One after one the stars have risen and set, 
Sparkling upon the hoarfrost on my chain : 
The Bear that prowled all night about the fold 
Of the ]^orth-Star, hath shrunk into his den. 
Scared by the blithesome footsteps of the Dawn, 
Whose blushing smile floods all the Orient ; 
And now bright Lucifer grows less and less. 
Into the heaven's blue quiet deep withdrawn. 
Sunless and starless all, the desert sky 
Arches above me, empty as this heart 
For ages hath been empty of all joy 
Except to brood upon its silent hope. 
As o'er its hope of day the sky doth now. 
All night have I heard voices : deeper yet 
The deep, low breathing of the silence grew. 
While all about, muffled in awe, there stood 
Shadows, or forms, or both, clear-felt at heart ; 
But, when I turned to front them, far along 
Only a shudder through the midnight ran, 



250 PROMETHEUS. 

And the dense stillness walled me closer round ; 

But still I heard them wander up and down 

That solitude, and flappings of dusk wings 

Did mingle with them, whether of those hags 

Let slip upon me once from Hades deep. 

Or of yet direr torments, if such be, 

1 could but guess ; and then toward me came 

A shape as of a woman : very pale 

It was, and calm ; its cold eyes did not move, 

And mine moved not, but only stared on them. 

Their moveless awe went through my brain like ice ; 

A skeleton hand seemed clutching at my heart. 

And a sharp chill, as if a dank night fog 

Suddenly closed me in, was all I felt : 

And then, methought, I heard a freezing sigh, 

A long, deep, shivering sigh, as from blue lips 

Stiffening in death, close to mine ear. I thought 

Some doom was close upon me, and I looked 

And saw the red moon through the heavy mist. 

Just setting, and it seemed as it were falling. 

Or reeling to its fall, so dim and dead 

And palsy-struck it looked. Then all sounds merged 

Into the rising surges of the pines. 

Which, leagues below me, clothing the gaunt loins 

Of ancient Caucasus with hairy strength. 

Sent up a murmur in the morning-wind, 

Sad as the wail that from the populous earth 

All day and night to high Olympus soars. 

Fit incense to thy wicked throne, Jove. 

Thy hated name is tossed once more in scorn 

From off my lips, for I will tell thy doom. 

And are these tears ? Nay, do not triumph, Jove ! 



PROMETHEUS. 251 

They are wrung from me but by the agonies 

Of prophecy, like those sparse drops which fall 

From clouds in travail of the lightning, when 

The great wave of the storm, high-curled and black, 

Rolls steadily onward to its thunderous break. 

Why art thou made a god of, thou poor type 

Of anger, and revenge, and cunning force ? 

True Power was never born of brutish Strength, 

Nor sweet Truth suckled at the shaggy dugs 

Of that old she-wolf. Are thy thunderbolts, 

That scare the darkness for a space, so strong 

As the prevailing patience of meek Light, 

Who, with the invincible tenderness of peace. 

Wins it to be a portion of herself ? 

Why art thou made a god of, thou, who hast 

The never-sleeping terror at thy heart. 

That birthright of all tyrants, worse to bear 

Than this thy ravening bird on which I smile ? 

Thou swear'st to free me, if I will unfold 

What kind of doom it is whose omen flits 

Across thy heart, as o'er a troop of doves 

The fearful shadow of the kite. What need 

To know that truth whose knowledge cannot save ? 

Evil its errand hath, as well as Good ; 

When thine is finished, thou art known no more : 

There is a higher purity than thou, 

And higher purity is greater strength ; 

Thy nature is thy doom, at which thy heart 

Trembles behind the thick wall of thy might. 

Let man but hope, and thou art straightway chilled 

With thought of that drear silence and deep night 

Which, like a dream, shall swallow thee and thine ; 

Let man but will, and thou art god no more ; 



252 PROMETHEUS. 

More capable of ruin than the gold 

And ivory that image thee on earth. 

He who hurled down the monstrous Titan-brood 

Blinded with lightnings, with rough thunders stunned. 

Is weaker than a simple human thought. 

My slender voice can shake thee, as the breeze, 

That seems but apt to stir a maiden's hair. 

Sways huge Oceanus from pole to pole : 

For I am still Prometheus, and foreknow 

In my wise heart the end and doom of all. 

Yes, I am still Prometheus, wiser grown 

By years of solitude — that holds apart 

The past and future, giving the soul room 

To search into itself — and long commune 

With this eternal silence — more a god 

In my long-suffering and strength to meet 

"With equal front the direst shafts of fate. 

Than thou in thy faint-hearted despotism, 

Girt with thy baby-toys of force and wrath. 

Yes, I am that Prometheus who brought down 

The light to man which thou in selfish fear 

Had'st to thyself usurped — his by sole right. 

For Man hath right to all save Tyranny — 

And which shall free him yet from thy frail throne. 

Tyrants are but the spawn of Ignorance, 

Begotten by the slaves they trample on, 

Who, could they win a glimmer of the light, 

And see that Tyranny is always weakness, 

Or Fear with its own bosom ill at ease, 

AVould laugh away in scorn the sand-wove chain 

Which their own blindness feigned for adamant. 

Wrong ever builds on (quicksands, but the Right 



PROMETHEUS. 253 

To the firm centre lays its moveless base. 

The tyrant trembles if the air but stirs 

The innocent ringlets of a child's free hair, 

And crouches, when the thouglit of some great spirit, 

With world-wide murmur, like a rising gale. 

Over men's hearts, as over standing corn, 

Eushes, and bends them to its own strong will. 

So shall some thought of mine yet circle earth 

And puff away thy crumbling altars, Jove. 

And, would^st thou know of my supreme revenge, 

Poor tyrant, even now dethroned in heart, 

Eealmless in soul, as tyrants ever are. 

Listen ! and tell me if this bitter peak. 

This never-glutted vulture, and these chains 

Shrink not before it, for it shall befit 

A sorrow-taught, unconquered Titan-heart. 

Men, when their death is on them, seem to stand 

On a precipitous crag that overhangs 

The abyss of doom, and in that depth to see, 

As in a glass, the features dim and huge 

Of things to come, the shadows, as it seems. 

Of what have been. Death never fronts the wise, 

'Not fearfully, but with clear promises 

Of larger life, on whose broad vans upborne, 

Their outlook widens, and they see beyond 

The horizon of the Present and the Past, 

Even to the very source and end of things. 

Such am I now : immortal woe hath made 

My heart a seer, and my soul a judge 

Between the substance and the shadow of Truth. 

The sure supremeness of the Beautiful, 

By all the martyrdoms made doubly sure 

Of such ^s I am, this is my revenge, 



254 PROMETHEUS. 

Which of my wrongs builds a triumphal arch 

Through which I see a sceptre and a throne. 

The pipings of glad shepherds on the hills. 

Tending the flocks no more to bleed for thee — 

The songs of maidens pressing with white feet 

The vintage on thine altars poured no more — 

The murmurous bliss of lovers, underneath 

Dim grape-vine bowers, whose rosy bunches press 

Not half so closely their warm cheeks, unscared 

By thoughts of thy brute lusts — the hive-like hum 

Of peaceful commonwealths, where sunburnt Toil 

Eeaps for itself the rich earth made its own 

By its own labor, lightened with glad hymns 

To an omnipotence which thy mad bolts 

Would cope with as a spark with the vast sea, 

Even the spirit of free love and peace. 

Duty's sure recompense through life and death — 

These are such harvests as all master-spirits 

Reap, haply not on earth, but reap no less 

Because the sheaves are bound by hands not theirs ; 

These are the bloodless daggers wherewithal 

They stab fallen tyrants, this their high revenge : 

For their best part of life on earth is when, 

Long after death, prisoned and pent no more, 

Their thoughts, their wild dreams even, have become 

Part of the necessary air men breathe ; 

When, like the moon, herself behind a cloud, 

They shed down light before us on life's sea, 

That cheers us to steer onward still in hope. 

Earth with her twining memories ivies o'er 

Their holy sepulchres, the chainless sea 

In tempest or wild calm repeats their thoughts, 

The lightning and the thunder, all free things. 



PROMETHEUS. 255 

Have legends of them for the ears of men. 
All other glories are as falling stars, 
But universal Nature watches theirs ; 
Such strength is won by love of human kind. 

Not that I feel that hunger after fame, 

Which souls of a half -greatness are beset with ; 

But that the memory of noble deeds 

Cries shame upon the idle and the vile, 

And keeps the heart of Man forever up 

To the heroic level of old time. 

To be forgot at first is little pain 

To a heart conscious of such high intent 

As must be deathless on the lips of men ; 

But, having been a name, to sink and be 

A something which the world can do without. 

Which, having been or not, would never change 

The lightest pulse of fate — this is indeed 

A cup of bitterness the worst to taste, 

And this thy heart shall empty to the dregs. 

Oblivion is lonelier than this peak — 

Behold thy destiny ! Thou think'st it much 

That I should brave thee, miserable god ! 

But I have braved a mightier than thou. 

Even the temptings of this soaring heart 

Which might have made me, scarcely less than thou, 

A god among my brethren weak and blind. 

Scarce less than thou, a pitiable thing. 

To be down-trodden into darkness soon ; 

But now I am above thee, for thou art 

The bungling workmanship of fear, the block 

That scares the swart Barbarian ; but I 

Am what myself have made, a nature wise 



256 PROMETHEUS. 

With finding in itself the types of all, — 
With watching from the dim verge of the time 
What things to be are visible in the gleams 
Thrown forward on them from the luminous past — 
Wise with the history of its own frail heart. 
With reverence and sorrow, and with love 
Broad as the world for freedom and for man. 

Thou and all strength shall crumble, except Love, 

By whom and for whose glory ye shall cease : 

And, when thou art but a dim moaning heard 

From out the pitiless glooms of Chaos, I 

Shall be a power and a memory, 

A name to scare all tyrants with, a light 

TJnsetting as the pole-star, a great voice 

Heard in the breathless pauses of the fight 

By truth and freedom ever waged with wrong, 

Clear as a silver trumpet, to awake 

Huge echoes that from age to age live on 

In kindred spirits, giving them a sense 

Of boundless power from boundless suffering wrung. 

And many a glazing eye shall smile to see 

The memory of my triumph (for to meet 

Wrong with endurance, and to overcome 

The present with a heart that looks beyond, 

Are triumph), like a prophet eagle, perch 

Upon the sacred banner of the right. 

iEvil springs up, and flowers, and bears no seed, 

And feeds the green earth with its swift decay, 

Leaving it richer for the growth of truth ; 

But Good, once put in action or in thought. 

Like a strong oak, doth from its boughs shed down 

The ripe germs of a forest, Thou, weak god. 



PROMETHEUS. 257 

Shalt fade and be forgotten ; but this soul. 
Fresh-living still in the serene abyss, 
In every heaving shall partake, that grows 
From heart to heart among the sons of men — 
As the ominous hum before the earthquake runs 
Far through the iEgean from roused isle to isle — 
Foreboding wreck to palaces and shrines. 
And mighty rents in many a cavernous error 
That darkens the free light to man : — This heart 
Unscarred by thy grim vulture, as the truth 
Grows but more lovely 'neath the beaks and claws 
Of Harpies blind that fain would soil it, shall 
In all the throbbing exultations share 
That wait on freedom's triumphs, and in all 
The glorious agonies of martyr-spirits — 
Sharp lightning-throes to split the jagged clouds 
That veil the future, showing them the end — 
Pain's thorny crown for constancy and truth, 
Girding the temples like a wreath of stars. 
This is a thought, that, like the fabled laurel. 
Makes my faith thunder-proof, and thy dread bolts 
Fall on me like the silent flakes of snow 
On the hoar brows of aged Caucasus : 
But, thought far more blissful, they can rend 
This cloud of flesh, and make my soul a star ! 

Unleash thy crouching thunders noAv, Jove ! 
Free this high heart which, a poor captive long, 
Doth knock to be let forth, this heart which still. 
In its invincible manhood, overtops 
Thy puny godship as this mountain doth 
Tlie pines that moss its roots. even now. 
While from my peak of suffering I look down, 
^7 



258 PROMETHEUS. 

Beholding with a far-spread gush of hope 

The sunrise of that Beauty in whose face. 

Shone all around with love, no man shall look 

But straightway like a god he is uplift 

Unto the throne long empty for his sake, 

And clearly oft foreshadowed in wide dreams 

By his free inward nature, which nor thou, 

Xor any anarch after thee, can bind 

From working its great doom — now, now set free 

This essence, not to die, but to become 

Part of that awful Presence which doth haunt 

The palaces of tyrants, to scare off, 

With its grim eyes and fearful whisperings 

And hideous sense of utter loneliness. 

All hope of safety, all desire of peace, 

All but the loathed foref eeling of blank death — 

Part of that spirit which doth ever brood 

In patient calm on the unpilfered nest 

Of man's deep heart, till mighty thoughts grow 

fledged 
To sail with darkening shadow o'er the world, 
Until they swoop, and their pale quarry make 
Of some o'erbloated wrong — that spirit which 
Scatters great hopes in the seed-field of man, 
Like acorns among grain, to grow and be 
A roof for freedom in all coming time. 

But no, this cannot be ; for ages yet. 

In solitude unbroken, shall I hear 

The angry Caspian to the Euxine shout. 

And Euxine answer with a muffled roar. 

On either side storming the giant walls 

Of Caucasus with leagues of climbing foam, 



PROMETHEUS. 259 

(Less, from my height, than flakes of downy snow) 

That draw back baffled but to hurl again. 

Snatched up in wrath and horrible turmoil, 

Mountain on mountain, as the Titans erst, 

My brethren, scaling the high seat of Jove, 

Heaved Pelion upon Ossa's shoulders broad, 

In vain emprise. The moon will come and go 

With her monotonous vicissitude ; 

Once beautiful, when I was free to walk 

Among my fellows and to interchange 

The influence benign of loving eyes. 

But now by aged use grown wearisome ; — 

False thought ! most false ! for how could 1 endure 

These crawling centuries of lonely woe 

Unshamed by weak complaining, but for thee, 

Loneliest, save me, of all created things, 

Mild-eyed Astarte, my best comforter, 

With thy pale smile of sad benignity ? 

Year after year will pass away and seem 

To me, in mine eternal agony, 

But as the shadows of dumb summer-clouds. 

Which I have watched so often darkening o^er 

The vast Sarmatian plain, league-wide at first. 

But, with still swiftness, lessening on and on 

Till cloud and shadow meet and mingle where 

The gray horizon fades into the sky. 

Far, far to northward. Yes, for ages yet 

Must I lie here upon my altar huge, 

A sacrifice for man. Sorrow will be. 

As it hath been, his portion ; endless doom, 

While the immortal with the mortal linked 

Dreams of its wings and pines for what it dreams 

With upward yearn unceasing. Better so : 



260 ROSALINE. 

For wisdom is meek sorrow's patient child, 

And empire over self, and all the deep 

Strong charities that make men seem like gods ; 

And love, that makes them be gods, from her breasts 

Sucks in the milk that makes mankind one blood. 

Good never comes unmixed, or so it seems. 

Having two faces, as some images 

Are carved, of foolish gods ; one face is ill, 

But one heart lies beneath, and that is good. 

As are all hearts, when we explore their depths. 

Therefore, great heart, bear up ! thou art but type 

Of what all lofty spirits endure, that fain 

Would win men back to strength and peace through 

love : 
Each hath his lonely peak, and on each heart 
Envy, or scorn, or hatred, tears lifelong 
With vulture beak ; yet the high soul is left. 
And faith, which is but hope grown wise, and love, 
And patience which at last shall overcome. 

Cambridge, Mass., June, 1843. 



ROSALINE. 

Thou look^d'st on me all yesternight. 
Thine eyes were blue, thy hair was bright 
As when we murmured our troth plight 
Beneath the thick stars, Rosaline ! 
Thy hair was braided on thy head 
As on the day we two were wed, 
Mine eyes scarce knew if thou wert dead- 
But my shrunk heart knew, Rosaline ! 



ROSALINE. 261 

The deathwatcli tickt behind the wall. 
The blackness rustled like a pall. 
The moaning wind did rise and fall 
Among the bleak pines, Eosaline ! 
My heart beat thickly in mine ears : 
The lids may shut out fleshly fears, 
But still the spirit sees and hears, 
Its eyes are lidless, Eosaline ! 

A wildness rushing suddenly, 

A knowing some ill shape is nigh, 

A wish for death, a fear to die — 

Is not this vengeance, Eosaline ! 

A loneliness that is not lone, 

A love quite withered up and gone, 

A strong soul trampled from its throne — 

What would'st thou further, Eosaline ! 

'T is lone such moonless nights as these, 
Strange sounds are out upon the breeze, 
And the leaves shiver in the trees, 
And then thou comest, Eosaline ! 
I seem to hear the mourners go, 
With long black garments trailing slow, 
And plumes a-nodding to and fro. 
As once I heard them, Eosaline ! 

Thy shroud it is of snowy white. 
And, in the middle of the night. 
Thou standest moveless and upright, 
Gazing upon me, Eosaline ! 
There is no sorrow in thine eyes. 
But evermore that meek surprise — 



262 ROSALINE. 

Oh, God ! her gentle spirit tries 
To deem me guiltless, Rosaline ! 

Above thy grave the Eobin sings, 

And swarms of bright and happy things 

Flit all about with sunlit wings — 

But I am cheerless, Rosaline ! 

The violets on the hillock toss, 

The gravestone is overgrown with moss. 

For nature feels not any loss — 

But I am cheerless, Rosaline ! 

Ah ! why wert thou so lowly bred ? 
AVhy was my pride galled on to wed 
Her who brought lands and gold instead 
Of thy heart's treasure, Rosaline ! 
AVhy did I fear to let thee stay 
To look on me and pass away 
Forgivingly, as in its May, 
A broken flower, Rosaline ! 

I thought not, when my dagger strook, 

Of thy blue eyes ; I could not brook 

The past all pleading in one look 

Of utter sorrow, Rosaline ! 

I did not know when thou wert dead : 

A blackbird whistling overhead 

Thrilled through my brain ; I Avould have fled 

But dared not leave thee, Rosaline ! 

A low, low moan, a light twig stirred 
By the upspringing of a bird, 
A drip of blood — were all I heard — 
Then deathly stillness, Rosaline ! 



ROSALINE. 263 

The sun rolled down, and very soon. 
Like a great fire, the awful moon 
Rose, stained with blood, and then a swoon 
Crept chilly o'er me, Rosaline ! 

The stars came out ; and, one by one. 
Each angel from his silver throne 
Looked down and saw what I had done : 
I dared not hide me, Rosaline I 
I crouched ; I feared thy corpse would cry 
Against me to God's quiet sky, 
I thought I saw the blue lips try 
To utter something, Rosaline ! 

I waited with a maddened grin 

To hear that voice all icy thin 

Slide forth and tell my deadly sin 

To hell and heaven, Rosaline ! 

But no voice came, and then it seemed 

That if the very corpse had screamed 

The sound like sunshine glad had streamed 

Through that dark stillness, Rosaline ! 

Dreams of old quiet glimmered by, 
And faces loved in infancy 
Came and looked on me mournfully. 
Till my heart melted, Rosaline ! 
I saw my mother's dying bed, 
I heard her bless me, and I shed 
Cool tears — but lo ! the ghastly dead 
Stared me to madness, Rosaline ! 

And then amid the silent night 
I screamed with horrible delight. 



264: ROSALINE. 

And in my brain an awful light 

Did seem to crackle, Kosaline ! 

It is my curse ! sweet mem'ries fall 

From me like snow — and only all 

Of that one night, like cold worms crawl 

My doomed heart over, Rosaline ! 

Thine eyes are shut : they nevermore 
Will leap thy gentle words before 
To tell the secret o'er and o'er 
Thou could'st not smother, Eosaline ! 
Thine eyes are shut : they will not shine 
With happy tears, or, through the vine 
That hid thy casement, beam on mine 
Sunfull with gladness, Rosaline ! 

Thy voice I nevermore shall hear. 
Which in old times did seem so dear. 
That, ere it trembled in mine ear. 
My quick heart heard it, Rosaline ! 
Would I might die ! I were as well. 
Ay, better, at my home in hell. 
To set for aye a burning spell 
'Twixt me and memory, Rosaline ! 

Why wilt thou haunt me with thine eyes. 
Wherein such blessed memories. 
Such pitying forgiveness lies. 
Than hate more bitter, Rosaline ! 
Woe 's me ! I know that love so high 
As thine, true soul, could never die. 
And with mean clay in churchyard lie — 
Would God it were so^ Rosaline ! 



A GLANCE BEHIND THE CURTAIN. 265 

SOXNET. 

If some small savor creep into my rhyme 

Of the old poets, if some words 1 use, 

Neglected long, which have the lusty thews 

Of that gold-haired and earnest-hearted time. 

Whose loving joy and sorrow all sublime 

Have given our tongue its starry eminence, — 

It is not pride, God knows, but reverence 

Which hath grown in me since my childhood's prime ; 

Wherein I feel that my poor lyre is strung 

With soul-strings like to theirs, and that I have 

No right to muse their holy graves among, 

If I can be a custom-fettered slave. 

And, in mine own true spirit, am not brave 

To speak what rusheth upward to my tongue. 



A GLANCE BEHIND THE CUETAIN. 

We see but half the causes of our deeds, 
Seeking them wholly in the outer life. 
And heedless of the encircling spirit-world 
Which, though unseen, is felt, and sows in us 
All germs of pure and world-wide purposes. 
From one stage of our being to the next 
We pass unconscious o'er a slender bridge. 
The momentary work of unseen hands. 
Which crumbles down behind us ; looking back, 
We see the other shore, the gulf between. 
And, marvelling how we won to where we stand. 
Content ourselves to call the builder Chance. 
We trace the wisdom to the apple's fall. 
Not to the soul of Newton, ripe with all 



266 A GLANCE BEHIND THE CURTAIN. 

The hoarded thoughtfulness of earnest years, 
And waiting but one ray of sunlight more 
To blossom fully. 

But whence came that ray ? 
We call our sorrows destiny, but ought 
Eather to name our high successes so. 
Only the instincts of great souls are Fate, 
And have predestined sway : all other things. 
Except by leave of us, could never be. 
For Destiny is but the breath of God 
Still moving in us, the last fragment left 
Of our unf alien nature, waking oft 
"Within our thought to beckon us beyond 
The narrow circle of the seen and known. 
And always tending to a noble end. 
As all things must that overrule the soul, 
And for a space unseat the helmsman, Will. 
The fate of England and of freedom once 
Seemed wavering in the heart of one plain man ; 
One step of his, and the great dial-hand 
That marks the destined progress of the world 
In the eternal round from wisdom on 
To higher wisdom, had been made to pause 
A hundred years. That step he did not take — 
He knew not why, nor we, but only God — 
And lived to make his simple oaken chair 
More terrible and grandly beautiful. 
More full of majesty, than any throne. 
Before or after, of a British king. 

Upon the pier stood two stern-visaged men, 
Looking to where a little craft lay moored. 



A GLANCE BEHIND THE CURTAIN. 267 

Swayed by the lazy current of the Thames, 

Which weltered by in muddy listlessness. 

Grave men they were, and battliugs of fierce thought 

Had scared away all softness from their brows, 

And ploughed rough furrows there before their time. 

Care, not of self, but of the common weal, 

Had robbed their eyes of youth, and left instead 

A look of patient power and iron will, 

And something fiercer, too, that gave broad hint 

Of the plain weapons girded at their sides. 

The younger had an aspect of command — 

Not such as trickles down, a slender stream. 

In the shrunk channel of a great descent — 

But such as lies entowered in heart and head, 

And an arm prompt to do the ^hests of both. 

His was a brow where gold were out of place. 

And yet it seemed right worthy of a crown 

(Though he despised such)*, were it only made 

Of iron, or some serviceable stuff 

That would have matched his sinewy brown face. 

The elder, although such he hardly seemed 

(Care makes so little of some five short years). 

Bore a clear, honest face, where scholarship 

Had mildened somewhat of its rougher strength, 

To sober courage, such as best befits 

The unsullied temper of a well-taught mind, 

Yet left it so as one could plainly guess 

The pent volcano smouldering underneath. 

He spoke : the other, hearing, kept his gaze 

Still fixed, as on some problem in the sky. 

*' CROiiWELL, we are fallen on evil times I 
There was a day when England had wide room 



268 A GLANCE BEHIND THE CURTAIN. 

For honest men as well as foolish kmgs ; 

But now the uneasy stomach of the time 

Turns squeamish at them both. Therefore let us 

Seek out that savage clime where men as yet 

Are free : there sleeps the vessel on the tide, 

Her languid sails but drooping for the wind : 

All things are fitly cared for, and the Lord 

Will watch as kindly o^'er the Exodus 

Of us his servants now, as in old time. 

We have no cloud or fire, and haply we 

May not pass dryshod through the ocean-stream ; 

But, saved or lost, all things are in His hand." 

So spake he, and meantime the other stood 

With wide, gray eyes still reading the blank air, 

As if upon the sky's blue wall he saw 

Some mystic sentence written by a hand 

Such as of old did scare the Assyrian king, 

Girt with his satraps in the blazing feast. 

'^Hampdeist, a moment since, my purpose was 
To fly with thee— for I will call it flight, 
Nor flatter it with any smoother name — 
But something in me bids me not to go ; 
And I am one, thou knowest, who, unscared 
By what the weak deem omens, yet give heed 
And reverence due to whatsoe'er my soul 
Whispers of warning to the inner ear. 
Why should we fly ? Nay, why not rather stay 
And rear again our Zion's crumbled walls. 
Not as of old the walls of Thebes were built 
By minstrel twanging, but, if need should be. 
With the more potent music of our swords ? 
Think'st thou that score of men beyond the sea 



A GLANCE BEHIND THE CURTAIN. 269 

Claim more God's care than all of England here ? 

No : when He moves His arm, it is to aid 

Whole peoples, heedless if a few be crushed. 

As some are ever when the destiny 

Of man takes one stride onward nearer home. 

Believe it, 't is the mass of men He loves. 

And where there is most sorrow and most want, 

Where the high heart of man is trodden down 

The most, 't is not because He hides His face 

From them in wrath, as purblind teachers prate. 

Not so : there most is He, for there is He 

Most needed. Men who seek for Fate abroad 

Are not so near His heart as tliey who dare 

Frankly to face her where she faces them. 

On their own threshold, where their souls are strong 

To grapple with and throw her, as I once, 

Being yet a boy, did throw this puny king. 

Who now has grown so dotard as to deem 

That he can wrestle with an angry realm. 

And throw the brawned Antaeus of men's rights. 

No, Hampden ; they have half-way conquered Fate 

Who go half-way to meet her — as will I. 

Freedom hath yet a work for me to do ; 

So speaks that inward voice which never yet 

Spake falsely, when it urged the spirit on 

To noble deeds for country and mankind. 

** What should we do in that small colony 

Of pinched fanatics, who would rather choose 

Freedom to clip an inch more from their hair 

Than the great chance of setting England free ? 

Not there amid the stormy wilderness 

Should we learn wisdom ; or, if learned, what room 



270 A GLANCE BEHIND THE CURTAIN. 

To put it into act— else worse than naught ? 

We learn our souls more, tossing for an hour 

Upon this huge and ever vexed sea 

Of human thought, where kingdoms go to wreck 

Like fragile bubbles yonder in the stream, 

Than in a cycle of 'New England sloth, 

Broke only by some petty Indian war. 

Or quarrel for a letter, more or less. 

In some hard word, which, spelt in either way, 

Xot their most learned clerks can understand. 

New times demand new measures and new men ; 

The world advances, and in time outgrows 

The laws that in our father's day were best ; 

And, doubtless, after us, some purer scheme 

Will be shaped out by wiser men than we, 

Made wiser by the steady growth of truth. 

We cannot bring Utopia at once ; 

But better almost be at work in sin 

Than in a brute inaction browse and sleep. 

No man is born into the world whose work 

Is not born with him ; there is always work. 

And tools to work withal, for those who will ; 

And blessed are the horny hands of toil ! 

The busy world shoves angrily aside 

The man who stands with arms a-kimbo set, 

Until occasion tells him what to do ; 

And he who waits to have his task marked out, 

Shall die and leave his errand unfulfilled. 

Our time is one that calls for earnest deeds. 

Reason and Government, like two broad seas, 

Yearn for each other with outstretched arms 

Across this narrow isthmus of the throne, 

And roll their white surf higher every day. 



A GLANCE BEHIND THE CURTAIN. 271 

The field lies wide before us, where to reap 

The easy harvest of a deathless name, 

Though with no better sickles than our swords. 

My soul is not a palace of tlie past, 

Where outworn creeds, like Rome's gray senate 

quake, 
Hearing afar the VandaFs trumpet hoarse, 
That shakes old systems with a thunder-fit. 
The time is ripe, and rotten-ripe, for change ; 
Then let it come : I have no dread of what 
Is called for by the instinct of mankind. 
Nor think I that God's world would fall apart 
Because we tear a parchment more or less. 
Truth is eternal, but her effluence. 
With endless change, is fitted to the hour ; 
Her mirror is turned forward, to reflect 
The promise of the future, not the past. 
I do not fear to follow out the truth. 
Albeit along the precipice's edge. 
Let us speak plain : there is more force in names 
Than most men dream of ; and a lie may keep 
Its throne a whole age longer, if it skulk 
Behind the shield of some fair-seeming name. 
Let us call tyrants tyrants, and maintain 
That only freedom comes by grace of God, 
And all that comes not by his grace must fall ; 
For men in earnest have no time to waste 
In patching fig-leaves for the naked truth. 

" I will have one more grapple with the man 
Charles Stuart : whom the boy overcame, 
The man stands not in awe of. I perchance 
Am one raised up by the Almighty arm 



272 A GLANCE BEHIND THE CURTAIN. 

To witness some great truth to all the world. 

Souls destined to overleap the vulgar lot. 

And mould the world unto the scheme of God, 

Have a foreconsciousness of their high doom. 

As men are known to shiver at the heart, 

When the cold shadow of some coming ill 

Creeps slowly o'er their spirits unawares : 

Hath Good less power of prophecy than HI ? 

How else could men whom God hath called to 

sway 
Earth's rudder, and to steer the barque of Truth, 
Beating against the wind toward her port. 
Bear all the mean and buzzing grievances. 
The petty martyrdoms wherewith Sin strives 
To weary out the tethered hope of Faith, 
The sneers, the unrecognizing look of friends, 
Who worship the dead corpse of old king Custom, 
Where it doth lie in state within the Church, 
Striving to cover up the mighty ocean 
AVith a man's palm, and making even the truth 
Lie for them, holding up the glass reversed. 
To make the hope of man seem further off ? 
My God ! when I read o'er the bitter lives 
Of men whose eager hearts were quite too great 
To beat beneath the cramped mode of the day. 
And see them mocked at by the world they love. 
Haggling with prejudice for pennyworths 
Of that reform which their hard toil will make 
The common birthright of the age to come — 
When I see this, spite of my faith in God, 
I marvel how their hearts bear up so long ; 
Nor could they, but for this same prophecy. 
This inward feeling of the glorious end. 



A GLANCE BEHIND THE CURTAIN. 273 

^' Deem me not fond ; but in my warmer youth, 

Ere my heart's bloom was soiled and brushed away, 

I had great dreams of mighty things to come ; 

Of conquest ; whether by the sword or pen, 

I knew not ; but some conquest I would have. 

Or else swift death : now, wiser grown in years, 

I find youth's dreams are but the flutterings 

Of those strong wings whereon the soul shall soar 

In after time to win a starry throne ; 

And therefore cherish them, for they were lots 

Which I, a boy, cast in the helm of Fate. 

Xor will I draw them, since a man's right hand, 

A right hand guided by an earnest soul. 

With a true instinct, takes the golden prize 

From out a thousand blanks. What men call luck. 

Is the prerogative of valiant souls. 

The fealty life pays its rightful kings. 

The helm is shaking now, and I will stay 

To pluck my lot forth ; it were sin to flee ! " 

So they two turned together ; one to die 

Fighting for freedom on the bloody field ; 

The other, far more happy, to become 

A name earth wears forever next her heart ; 

One of the few that have a right to rank 

With the true Makers ; for his spirit wrought 

Order from Chaos ; proved that right divine 

Dwelt only in the excellence of Truth ; 

And far within old Darkness' hostile lines 

Advanced and pitched the shining tents of Light, 

Nor shall the grateful Muse forget to tell, 

That — not the least among his many claims 

To deathless honor — he was Milton's friend. 
i8 



274 ^ SONG. 

A man not second among those who lived 
To show us that the poet's lyre demands 
An arm of tougher sinew than the sword. 



A SONG. 

Violet ! sweet violet ! 
Thine eyes are full of tears ; 
Are they wet 
Even yet 
With the thought of other years, 
Or with gladness are they full, 
For the night so beautiful. 
And longing for those far-off spheres ? 

Loved one of my youth thou wast, 
Of my merry youth, 
And I see. 
Tearfully, 
All the fair and sunny past. 
All its openness and truth. 
Ever fresh and green in thee 
As the moss is in the sea. 

Thy little heart, that hath with love 
Grown colored like the sky above. 
On which thou lookest ever, — 
Can it know 
All the woe 
Of hope for what returneth never. 
All the sorrow and the longing 
To these hearts of ours belonging ! 
Out on it ! no foolish pining 



THE MOON. 275 

For the sky 

Dims thine eye, 
Or for the stars so calmly shining , 
• Like thee let this soul of mine 
Take hue from that wherefor I long, 
Self-stayed and high, serene and strong, 
Not satisfied with hoping — but divine. 

Violet ! dear Violet I 

Thy blue eyes are only wet 
With joy and love of him who sent thee. 
And, for the fulfilling sense 
Of that glad obedience 
Which made thee all which N'ature meant thee! 



THE MOON. 

My soul was like the sea 
Before the moon was made ; 
Moaning in vague immensity, 
Of its own strength afraid, 
Unrestful and unstaid. 

Through every rift it foamed in vain 

About its earthly prison, 
Seeking some unknown thing in pain, 
And sinking restless back again. 

For yet no moon had risen : 
Its only voice a vast dumb moan 
Of utterless anguish speaking. 
It lay unhopefully alone 
And lived but in an aimless seeking. 



^76 THE FATHERLAND. 

So was my soul : but when 't was full 

Of unrest to overloading, 
A voice of something beautiful 

Whispered a dim foreboding, 
And yet so soft, so sweet, so low, 
It had not more of joy than woe : 
And, as the sea doth oft lie still, 

Making his waters meet. 
As if by an unconscious will. 

For the moon^s silver feet. 
Like some serene, unwinking eye 
That waits a certain destiny. 
So lay my soul within mine eyes 
When thou its sovereign moon didst rise. 

And now, howe'er its waves above 

May toss and seem uneaseful. 
One strong, eternal law of love 

With guidance sure and peaceful. 
As calm and natural as breath 
Moves its great deeps through Life and Death. 



THE FATHERLAND. 

AVhere is the true man^s fatherland ? 

Is it where he by chance is born ? 

Doth not the free- winged spirit scorn 
In such pent borders to be spanned ? 

Oh yes ! his fatherland must be 

As the blue heavens wide and free ! 

Is it alone where freedom is, 

Where God is God and man is man ? 



A PARABLE. 277 

Doth he not claim a broader span 
For the soul's love of home than this ? 
Oh yes ! his fatherland must be 
As the blue heavens wide and free ! 

Where'er a human heart doth wear 

Joy's myrtle wreath, or sorrow's gyves. 

Where'er a human spirit strives 
After a life more pure and fair, 

There is the true man's birthplace grand ! 

His is a world-wide fatherland ! 

Where'er a single slave doth pine, 

Where'er one man may help another — 
Thank God for such a birthright, brother ! 

That spot of earth is thine and mine ; 

There is the true man's birthplace grand ! 
His is a world-wide fatherland ! 



A PARABLE. 

Work and footsore was the Prophet 
When he reached the holy hill ; 

" God has left the earth," he murmured, 
" Here his presence lingers still. 

" God of all the olden prophets. 
Wilt thou talk with me no more ? 

Have I not as truly loved thee 
As thy chosen ones of yore ? 

" Hear me, guider of my fathers, 
Lo, an humble heart is mine ; 

By thy mercy I beseech thee, 
Grant thy servant but a sign ! '^ 



278 A PARABLE. 

Bowing then his head, he listened 
For an answer to his prayer ; 

No loud burst of thunder followed, 
Not a murmur stirred the air : 

But the tuft of moss before him 

Opened while he waited yet. 
And from out the rock's hard bosom 

Sprang a tender violet. 

" God ! I thank thee," said the Prophet, 
" Hard of heart and blind was I, 

Looking to the holy mountain 
For the gift of prophecy. 

'' Still thou speakest with thy children 

Freely as in Eld sublime. 
Humbleness and love and patience 

Give dominion over Time. 

^' Had I trusted in my nature. 
And had faith in lowly things. 

Thou thyself wouldst then have sought me, 
And set free my spirit's wings. 

" But I looked for signs and wonders 
That o'er men should give me sway ; 

Thirsting to be more than mortal, 
I was even less than clay. 

'^ Ere I entered on my journey, 

As I girt my loins to start. 
Ran to me my little daughter, 

The beloved of my heart j 



ON THE DEATH OF A FRIEND'S CHILD. 279 

" In her hand she held a flower. 

Like to this as like may be, 
Which beside my very threshold 

She had plucked and brought to me/' 



ON THE DEATH OF A FEIEND'S CHILD. 

Death never came so nigh to me before, 

Nor showed me his mild face : Oft I had mused 

Of calm and peace and deep forgetfulness, 

Of folded hands, closed eyes, and heart at rest. 

And slumber sound beneath a flowery turf, 

Of faults forgotten, and an inner place 

Kept sacred for us in the heart of friends ; 

But these were idle fancies satisfied 

With the mere husk of this great Mystery, 

And dwelling in the outward shows of things. 

Heaven is not mounted to on wings of dreams, 

Nor doth the unthankful happiness of youth 

Aim thitherward, but floats from bloom to bloom. 

With earth's warm patch of sunshine well content ; 

'T is sorrow builds the shining ladder up 

Whose golden rounds are our calamities. 

Whereon our firm feet planting, nearer God 

The spirit climbs, and hath its eyes unsealed. 

True is it that Death's face seems stern and cold. 
When he is sent to summon those we love. 
But all God's angels come to us disguised ; 
Sorrow and sickness, poverty and death. 
One after other lift their frowning masks. 
And we behold the seraph's face beneath, 
All radiant with the glory and the calm 



280 ON THE DEATH OF A FRIEND'S CHILD. 

Of having looked upon the smile of God. 

With every anguish of our earthly past 

The spirit's sight grows clearer ; this was meant 

When Jesus touched the blind man's lids with clay. 

Life is the jailer. Death the angel sent 

To draw the unwilling bolts and set us free. 

He flings not ope the ivory gate of Eest — 

Only the fallen spirit knocks at that — 

But to benigner regions beckons us, 

To destinies of more rewarded toil. 

In the hushed chamber, sitting by the dead, 

It grates on us to hear the flood of life 

Whirl rustling onward, senseless of our loss. 

The bee hums on ; around the blossomed vine 

Whirs the light humming-bird ; the cricket chirps ; 

The locust's shrill alarum stings the ear ; 

Hard by, the cock shouts lustily ; from farm to farm. 

His cheery brothers, telling of the sun. 

Answer, till far away the joyance dies ; 

We never knew before how God had filled 

The summer air with happy living sounds ; 

All round us seems an overplus of life. 

And yet the one dear heart lies cold and still. 

It is most strange, when the great Miracle 

Hath for our sakes been done ; when we have had 

Our inwardest experience of God, 

When with his presence still the room expands, 

And is awed after him, that naught is changed, 

That Nature's face looks unacknowledging. 

And the mad world still dances heedless on 

After its butterflies, and gives no sigh. 

'T is hard at first to see it all aright ; 



ON THE DEATH OF A FRIEND'S CHILD. 281 

In vain Faith blows her trump to summon back 
Her scattered troop ; yet, through the clouded glass 
Of our own bitter tears, we learn to look 
Undazzled on the kindness of God^s face ; 
Earth is too dark, and Heaven alone shines through. 

How changed, dear friend, are thy part and thy 

child's ! 
He bends above thy cradle now, or holds 
His warning finger out to be thy guide ; 
Thou art the nursling now ; he watches thee 
Slow learning, one by one, the secret things 
Which are to him used sights of every day ; 
He smiles to see thy wondering glances con 
The grass and pebbles of the spirit world, 
To thee miraculous ; and he will teach 
Thy knees their due observances of prayer. 

Children are God's apostles, day by day. 

Sent forth to preach of love, and hope, and peace ; 

Nor hath thy babe his mission left undone. 

To me, at least, his going hence hath given 

Serener thoughts and nearer to the skies. 

And opened a new fountain in my heart 

For thee, my friend, and all : and oh, if Death 

More near approaches, meditates, and clasps 

Even now some dearer, more reluctant hand, 

God, strengthen thou my faith, that I may see 

That 't is thine angel who, with loving haste, 

Unto the service of the inner shrine 

Doth waken thy beloved with a kiss ! 

Cambridge, Mass., Sept. 3, 1844. 



282 AN INCIDENT IN A RAILROAD CAR. 

AN INCIDENT IN A RAILROAD CAE. 

He spoke of Burns : men rude and rough 
Pressed round to hear the praise of one 

Whose breast was made of manly, simple stuff. 
As homespun as their own. 

And, when he read, they forward leaned 
And heard, with eager hearts and ears, 

His birdlike songs whom glory never weaned 
From humble smiles and tears. 

Slowly there grew a tender awe, 
Sunlike o'er faces brown and hard. 

As if in him who read they felt and saw 
Some presence of the bard. 

It was a sight for sin and wrong. 

And slavish tyranny to see, 
A sight to make our faith more pure and strong 

In high Humanity. 

I thought, these men will carry hence. 
Promptings their former life above, 

And something of a finer reverence 
For beauty, truth, and love. 

God scatters love on every side. 

Freely among his children all. 
And always hearts are lying open wide 

AVherein some grains may fall. 

There is no wind but sows some seeds 

Of a more true and open life, 
Which burst unlooked for into high-souled deeds 

With wayside beauty rife. 



AN INCIDENT IN A RAILROAD CAR. 283 

We find within these souls of ours 

Some wild germs of a higher birth, 
Which in the poet's tropic heart bears flowers 

Whose fragrance fills the earth. 

Within the hearts of all men lie 

These promises of wider bliss, 
Which blossom into hopes that cannot die, 

In sunny hours like this. 

All that hath been majestical 

In life or death since time began. 
Is native in the simple heart of all. 

The angel heart of man. 

And thus among the untaught poor 
Great deeds and feelings find a home 

Which casts in shadow all the golden lore 
01 classic Greece or Rome. 

Oh ! mighty brother-soul of man. 

Where'er thou art, in low or high. 
Thy skyey arches with exulting span 

O'er-roof infinity. 

All thoughts that mould the age begin 
Deep down within the primitive soul, 

And, from the many, slowly upward wing 
To One who grasps the whole. 

In his broad breast, the feeling deep 
Which struggled on the many's tongue. 

Swells to a tide of Thought whose surges leap 
O'er the weak throne of wrong. 



284 AN INCIDENT OF THE FIRE AT HAMBURGH. 

Never did poesy appear 

So full of Heav'n to me as when 
I saw how it would pierce through pride and fear. 

To lives of coarsest men. 

It may be glorious to write 

Thoughts that shall glad the two or three 
High souls like those far stars that come in sight 

Once in a century. 

But better far it is to speak 

One simple word which now and then 

Shall waken their free nature in the weak 
And friendless sons of men ; 

To write some earnest verse or line, 
Which, seeking not the praise of Art, 

Shall make a clearer faith and manhood shine 
In the unlearned heart. 

Boston, April, 1842. 



AN INCIDENT OF THE FIRE AT HAMBURGH. 

The tower of old Saint Nicholas soared upward to the 

skies. 
Like some huge piece of nature's make, the growth of 

centuries ; 
You could not deem its crowding spires a work of 

human art. 
They seemed to struggle lightward so from a sturdy 

living heart. 



AN INCIDENT OF THE FIRE AT HAMBURGH. 285 

Not Nature's self more freely speaks in crystal or in 

oak 
Than, through the pious builder's hand, in that gray 

pile she spoke ; 
And as from acorn springs the oak, so, freely and 

alone. 
Sprang from his heart this hymn to God, sung in 

obedient stone. 



It seemed a wondrous freak of chance, so perfect, yet 

so rough, 
A whim of Nature crystallized slowly in granite tough ; 
The thick spires yearned toward the sky in quaint 

harmonious lines. 
And in broad sunlight basked and slept, like a grove 

of blasted pines. 

Never did rock or stream or tree lay claim with better 

right 
To all the adorning sympathies of shadow and of light ; 
And, in that forest petrified, as forester there dwells 
Stout Herman, the old sacristan, sole lord of all its 

bells. 

Surge leaping after surge, the fire roared onward, red 
as blood, 

Till half of Hamburgh lay engulfed beneath the eddy- 
ing flood, 

For miles away, the fiery spray poured down its deadly 
rain. 

And back and forth the billows drew, and paused, and 
broke again. 



286 AN INCIDENT OF THE FIRE AT HAMBURGH. 

From square to square, with tiger leaps, still on and 
on it came ; 

The air to leeward trembled with the pantings of the 
flame, 

And church and palace, which even now stood whelmed 
but to the knee, 

Lift their black roofs like breakers lone amid the rush- 
ing sea. 

Up in his tower old Herman sat and watched with 

quiet look ; 
His soul had trusted God too long to be at last forsook : 
He could not fear, for surely God a pathway would 

unfold 
Through this red sea, for faithful hearts, as once he 

did of old. 

But scarcely can he cross himself, or on his good 
saint call, 

Before the sacrilegious flood o'erleaped the church- 
yard wall. 

And, ere a pater half was said, ^mid smoke and crack- 
ling glare. 

His island tower scarce just its head above the wide 
despair. 

Upon the peril's desperate peak his heart stood up 

sublime ; 
His first thought was for God above, his next was for 

his chime ; 
''Sing now, and make your voices heard in hymns of 

praise,'' cried he, 
^ ' As did the Israelites of old, safe-walking through 

the sea ! 



SONNETS. 287 

*' Through this red sea our God hath made our pathway 

safe to shore ; 
Our promised laud stands full in sight ; shout now as 

ne'er before." 
And, as the tower came crashing down, the bells, in 

clear accord, 
Pealed forth the grand old German hymn — ^' All good 

souls praise the Lord ! " 



so:n"nets. 

I. 

As the broad ocean endlessly upheaveth, 
With the majestic beating of his heart, 
The mighty tides, whereof its rightful part 
Each sea-wide gulf and little weed receiveth — 
So, through hij soul who earnestly believeth, 
Life from the universal Heart doth flow. 
Whereby some conquest of the eternal woe 
By instinct of God^s nature he achieveth : 
A fuller pulse of this all-powerful Beauty 
Into the poet's gulf -like heart doth tide. 
And he more keenly feels the glorious duty 

Of serving Truth despised and crucified — 
Happy, unknowing sect or creed, to rest 
And feel God flow forever through his breast. 

II. 

Once hardly in a cycle blossometh 
A flower-like soul ripe with the seeds of song 
A spirit foreordained to cope with wrong, 



288 SONNETS. 

Whose divine thoughts are natural as breath, 
Who the old Darkness thickly scattereth 

With starry words which shoot prevailing light 

Into the deeps, and wither with the blight 
Of serene Truth the coward heart of Death : 
Woe if such spirit sell his birthright high, 

And mock with lies the longing soul of man ! 
Yet one age longer must true Culture lie. 

Soothing her bitter fetters as she can. 
Until new messages of love outstart 
At the next beating of the infinite Heart. 

III. 

The love of all things springs from love of one ; 

Wider the soul's horizon hourly grows. 

And over it with fuller glory flows 
The sky-like spirit of God ; a hope begun 
In doubt and darkness, 'neath a fairer sun 

Cometh to fruitage, if it be of Truth ; 

And to the law of meekness, faith, and ruth. 
By inward sympathy shall all be won : 
This thou shouldst know, who from the painted 
feature 

Of shifting Fashion, couldst thy brethren turn 
Unto the love of ever youthful nature. 

And of a beauty fadeless and eterne ; 
And always 't is the saddest sight to see 
An old man faithless in Humanity. 

IV. 

A poet cannot strive for despotism ; 

His harp falls shattered ; for it still must be 
The instinct of great spirits to be free, 



SONNETS. 289 

And the sworn foes of cunning barbarism. 
He who has deepest searched the wide abysm 

Of that life-giving Soul which men call fate, 

Knows that to put more faith in lies and hate 
Than truth and love, is the worst atheism : 
Upward the soul forever turns her eyes ; 

The next hour always shames the hour before ; 
One beauty at its highest prophesies 

That by whose side it shall seem mean and poor ; 
No Godlike thing knows aught of less and less. 
But widens to the boundless Perfectness. 

V. 

Therefore think not the Past is wise alone. 
For Yesterday knows nothing of the Best, 
And thou shalt love it only as the nest 

Whence glory- winged things to Heaven have flown. 

To the great Soul alone are all things known, 
Present and future are to her as past. 
While she in glorious madness doth forecast 

That perfect bud which seems a flower full-blown 

To each new Prophet, and yet always opes 
Fuller and fuller with each day and hour. 

Heartening the soul with odor of fresh hopes. 
And longings high and gushings of wide power 

Yet never is or shall be fully blown 

Save in the forethought of the Eternal One. 

VI. 

Far 'yond this narrow parapet of Time, 

With eyes uplift, the poet's soul should look 
Into the Endless Promise, nor should brook 

12 



290 THE UNHAPPY LOT OF MR. KNOTT. 

One prying doubt to shake his faith sublime ; 
To him the earth is ever in her prime 

And dewiness of morning ; he can see 

Good lying hid, from all eternity, 
"Within the teeming womb of sin and crime ; 
His soul shall not be cramped by any bar — 

His nobleness should be so Godlike high 
That his least deed is perfect as a star, 

His common look majestic as the sky, 
And all o'erflooded with a light from far, 
Undimmed by clouds of weak mortality. 

Boston, April 2, 1842. 



THE UNHAPPY LOT OF ME. KNOTT. 

PART I. 

Showing how he built his house and his wife moved into it. 

My worthy friend, A. Gordon Knott, 

Erom business snug withdrawn. 
Was much contented with a lot 
Which would contain a Tudor cot 
Twixt twelve feet square of garden-plot, 

And twelve feet more of lawn. 
He had laid business on the shelf 

To give his taste expansion. 
And, since no man, retired with pelf, 

The building mania can shun, 
Knott, being middle-aged himself, 
Kesolved to build (unhappy elf ! ) 

A mediaeval mansion. 



THE UNHAPPY LOT OF MR. KNOTT. 291 

He called an architect in counsel ; 

"I want," said he, '* a — you know what. 

You are a builder, I am Knott,) 

A thing complete from chimney-pot 
Down to the very groundsel ; 

Here's a half -acre of good land ; 

Just have it nicely mapped and planned 
And make your workmen drive on ; 

Meadow there is, and upland too, 

And I should like a water-view, 
D' you think you could contrive one ? 

(Perhaps the pump and trough would do, 

If painted a judicious blue ?) 

The woodland Fve attended to ; " 

(He meant three pines stuck up askew, 
Two dead ones and a live one.) 

^' A pocket- full of rocks 't would take 
To build a house of free-stone. 

But then it is not hard to make 
What nowadays is the stone ; 

The cunning painter in a trice 
Your house's outside petrifies. 

And people think it very gneiss 
Without inquiring deeper ; 

My money never shall be thrown 

Away on such a deal of stone. 
When stone of deal is cheaper. '* 

And so the greenest of antiques 

Was reared for Knott to dwell in ; 
The architect worked hard for weeks 
In venting all his private peaks 
Upon the roof, whose crop of leaks 



292 THE UNHAPPY LOT OF MR. KNOTT. 

Had satisfied Fluellen. 
Whatever anybody had 
Out of the common, good or bad, 

Knott had it all worked well in, 
A donjon-keep, where clothes might dry, 
A porter's lodge that was a sty, 
A campanile slim and high. 

Too small to hang a bell in ; 

All up and down and here and there, 
With Lord-knows-whats of round and square 
Stuck on at random everywhere. 
It was a house to make one stare. 

All corners and all gables ; 
Like dogs let loose upon a bear. 
Ten emulous styles, stahoyed with care. 
The whole among them seemed to tear. 
And all the oddities to spare 

Were set upon the stables. 

Knott was delighted with a pile 

Approved by fashion's leaders ; 
(Only he made the builder smile 
By asking every little while, 
Why that was called the Twodoor style 

Which certainly had three doors ?) 
Yet better for this luckless man 
If he had put a downright ban 

Upon the thing in limine ; 
For, though to quit affairs his plan, 
Ere many days, poor Knott began 
Perforce accepting draughts, that ran 

All ways — except up chimney ; 
The house, though painted stone to mock, 



THE UNHAPPY LOT OP MR. KNOTT. 293 

With nice white lines round every block, 

Some trepidation stood in, 
When tempests (with petrific shock, 
So to speak) made it really rock, 

Though not a whit less wooden ; 
And painted stone, howe'er well done. 
Will not take in the prodigal sun 
Whose beams are never quite at one 

With our terrestrial lumber ; 
So the wood shrank around the knots, 
And gaped in disconcerting spots. 
And there were lots of dots and rots 

And crannies without number, 
Wherethrough, as you may well presume, 
The wind, like water through a flume. 

Came rushing in ecstatic. 
Leaving, in all three floors, no room 

That was not a rheumatic ; 
And, what with points and squares and rounds 

Grown shaky on their poises. 
The house at night was full of pounds. 
Thumps, bumps, creaks, scratchings, raps — till — 

'' Zounds ! " 
Cried Knott, *' this goes beyond all bounds, 
I do not deal in tongues and sounds, 
Nor have I let my house and grounds 

To a family of N^oyeses ! " 

But though Knott^s house was full of airs. 

He had but one — a daughter ; 
And, as he owned much stocks and shares, 
Many who wished to render theirs 
Such vain, unsatisfying cares. 



294 THE UNHAPPY LOT OF MR. KNOTT. 

And needed wives to sew their tears, 

In matrimony sought her ; 
They vowed her gold they wanted not, 

Their faith would never falter. 
They longed to tie this single Knott 

In the Hymeneal halter ; 
So daily at the door they rang. 

Cards for the belle delivering. 
Or in the choir at her they sang. 
Achieving such a rapturous twang 

As set her nerves a-shivering. 

Now Knott had quite made up his mind 

That Colonel Jones should have her ; 
No beauty he, but oft we find 
Sweet kernels ^neath a roughish rind. 
So hoped his Jenny 'd be resigned 

And make no more palaver ; 
Glanced at the fact that love was blind, 
That girls were ratherish inclined 

To pet their little crosses. 
Then nosologically defined 
The rate at which the system pined 
In those unfortunates who dined 
Upon that metaphoric kind 

Of dish — their own proboscis. 

But she, with many tears and moans. 
Besought him not to mock her. 

Said 't was too much for flesh and bones. 

To marry mortgages and loans. 

That fathers' hearts were stocks and stones. 

And that sheM go, when Mrs. Jones, 
To Davy Jones's locker ; 



THE UNHAPPY LOT OF MR. KNOTT. 295 

Then gave her head a little toss 
That said as plain as ever was, 
If men are always at a loss 

Mere womankind to bridle — 
To try the thing on woman cross, 

Were fifty times as idle ; 
For she a strict resolve had made 

And registered in private, 
That either she would die a maid, 
Or else be Mrs. Dr. Slade, 

If woman could contrive it ; 
And, though the wedding-day was set, 

Jenny was more so, rather, 
Declaring, in a pretty pet, 
That, howsoe^e they spread their net. 
She would out Jennyral them yet. 

The colonel and her father. 
Just at this time the Public's eyes 

Were keenly on the watch, a stir 
Beginning slowly to arise 
About those questions and replies. 
Those raps that unwrapped mysteries 

So rapidly at Rochester. 
And Knott, already nervous grown 
By lying much awake alone. 
And listening, sometimes to a moan. 

And sometimes to a clatter. 
Whene'er the wind at night would rouse 
The ginger-bread-work on his house. 
Or when some hasty-tempered mouse, 
Behind the plastering made a towse 

About a family matter. 
Began to wonder if his wife, 



296 THE UNHAPPY LOT OF MR. KNOTT. 

A paralytic half her life, 

Which made it more surprising. 

Might not, to rule him from her urn, 

Have taken a peripatetic turn 
For want of exorcising. 

This thought, once nestled in his head, 

Ere long contagious grew, and spread 

Infecting all his mind with dread. 

Until at last he lay in bed 

And heard his wife, with well-known tread, 

Entering the kitchen through the shed, 

(Or was 't his fancy mocking ?) 
Opening the pantry, cutting bread. 
And then (she M been some ten years dead) 

Closets and drawers unlocking ; 
Or, in his room, (his breath grew thick) 
He heard the long familiar click 
Of slender needles flying quick. 

As if she knit a stocking ; 

For whom ?— he prayed that years might flit 

With pains rheumatic shooting, 
Before those ghostly things she knit 
Upon his unfleshed sole might fit. 
He did not fancy it a bit. 

To stand upon that footing ; 
At other times, his frightened hairs 

Above the bed-clothes trusting. 
He heard her, full of household cares, 
(No dream entrapped in supper's snares^ 
The foal of horrible nightmares. 
But broad awake, as he declares,) 
Go bustling up and down the stairs, 



THE UNHAPPY LOT OF MR, KNOTT. 297 

Or setting back last evening^s chairs, 

Or with the poker thrusting 
The raked-up sea-coal's hardened crust — 
And — what ! impossible ! it must ! 
He knew she had returned to dust, 
And yet could scarce his senses trust, 
Hearing her as she poked and fussed 

About the parlor, dusting ! 

Night after night he strove to sleep 

And take his ease in spite of it ; 
But still his flesh would chill and creep. 
And, though two night-lamps he might keep, 

He could not so make light of it. 
At last, quite desperate, he goes 
And tells his neighbors all his woes. 

Which did but their amount enhance ; 
They made such mockery of his fears, 
That soon his days were of all jeers. 

His nights of the rueful countenance ; 
'^I thought most folks," one neighbor said, 
" Gave up the ghost when they were dead," 
Another gravely shook his head. 

Adding, '^from all we hear, it's 
Quite plain poor Knott is going mad — 
For how can he at once be sad 

And think he 's full of spirits ? " 
A third declared he knew a knife 

Would cut this Knott much quicker, 
'' The surest way to end all strife. 
And lay the spirit of a wife. 

Is just to take and lick her ! " 
A temperance man caught up the word, 



298 THE UNHAPPY LOT OF MR. KNOTT. 

'^ Ah, yes," he groaned, ''^ I 've always heard 

Our poor friend always slanted 
Tow'rd taking liquor overmuch ; 
I fear these spirits may be Dutch, 
(A sort of gins, or something such,) 

With which his house is haunted ; 
I see the thing as clear as light — 
If Knott would give up getting tight. 

Naught farther would be wanted : " 
So all his neighbors stood aloof 
And, that the spirits 'neath his roof 
Were not entirely up to proof. 

Unanimously granted. 
Knott knew that cocks and sprites were foes. 
And so bought up. Heaven only knows 
How many, though he wanted crows 
To give ghosts cause, as I suppose. 

To think that day was breaking ; 
Moreover, what he called his park. 
He turned into a kind of ark, 
For dogs, because a little bark 
Is a good tonic in the dark, 

If one is given to waking ; 
But things went on from bad to worse. 
His curs were nothing but a curse, 

And, what was still more shocking. 
Foul ghosts of living fowl made scoff 
And would not think of going off 

In spite of all his cocking. 

Shanghais, Bucks-counties, Dominiques, 
Malays (that did n't lay for weeks,) 
Polanders, Bantams, Dorkings, 



f 



THE UNHAPPY LOT OF MR. KNOTT. 299 

Waiving the cost, no trifling ill, 
(Since each brought in his little bill) 
By day or night were never still. 
But every thought of rest would kill 

With cacklings and with quorkings : 
Henry the Eighth of wives got free 

By a way he had of axing ; 
But poor Knott's Tudor henery 
Was not so fortunate, and he 

Still found his trouble waxing ; 
As for the dogs, the rows they made, 
And how they howled, snarled, barked, and bayed. 

Beyond all human knowledge is ; 
All night, as wide awake as gnats. 
The terriers rumpused after rats, 
Or, just for practice, taught their brats 
To worry cast-off shoes and hats. 
The bull-dogs settled private spats, 
All chased imaginary cats. 
Or raved behind the fence's slats 
At real ones, or, from their mats. 
With friends miles off, held pleasant chats. 
Or, like some folks in white cravats, 
Contemptuous of sharps and flats, 

Sat up and sang dogsologies. 

PART II. 

Showing what is meant by a flow of Spirits. 

At first the ghosts were somewhat shy. 
Coming when none but Knott was nigh, 
And people said 't was all their eye, 
(Or rather his) a flam, the sly 



300 THE UNHAPPY LOT OF MR. KNOTT. 

Digestion's machination ; 
Some recommended a wet sheet. 
Some a nice broth of pounded peat. 
Some a cold flat-iron to the feet. 
Some a decoction of lamVs-bleat ; 
Some a southwesterly grain of wheat ; 
Meat was by some pronounced unmeet, 
Others thought fish most indiscreet. 
And that 't was worse than all to eat 
Of vegetables, sour or sweet, 
(Except, perhaps, the skin of beet,) 

In such a concatenation : 
One quack his button gently plucks 
And murmurs '' biliary ducks ! " 

Says Knott, ^' I never ate one ; " 
But all, though brimming full of wrath, 
Homeo, Alio, Hydropath, 
Concurred in this — that Mother's path 

To death's door was the straight one. 
But, spite of medical advice. 
The ghosts came thicker, and a spice 

Of mischief grew apparent ; 
Nor did they only come at night. 
But seemed to fancy broad daylight. 
Till Knott, in horror and affright. 

His unoffending hair rent ; 
Whene'er, with handkerchief on lap, 
He made his elbow-chair a trap 
To catch an after-dinner nap. 
The spirits, always on the tap. 
Would make a sudden raiJ, raj), raj), 
The half-spun cord of life to snap, 
(xind what is life without its nap 



THE UNHAPPY LOT OF MR. KNOTT. 30I 

But threadbareness and mere mishap ?) 
As 't were with a percussion cap 

The trouble^s climax capping ; 
It seemed a party dried and grim 
Of mummies had come to visit him, 
Each getting off from every limb 

Its multitudinous wrapping ; 
Scratchings sometimes the walls ran round. 
The merest penny-weights of sound ; 
Sometimes 't was only by the pound 

They carried on their dealing, 
A thumping 'neatli the parlor floor. 
Thump — bump — thump — bumping o'er and o'er. 
As if the vegetables in store, 
(Quiet and orderly before,) 

Were all together pealing ; 
You would have thought the thing was done 
By the Spirit of some son of a gun. 

And that a forty-two pounder. 
Or that the ghost which made such sounds 
Could be none other than John Pounds, 

Of Eagged Schools the founder. 

Through three gradations of affright. 
The awful noises reached their height ; 

At first they knocked nocturnally. 
Then, for some reason, changing quite, 
(As mourners, after six months' flight. 
Turn suddenly from dark to light,) 

Began to knock diurnally, 
And last, combining all their stocks> 
(Scotland was ne'er so full of Knox,) 
Into one Chaos, (father of Nox), 



302 THE UNHAPPY LOT OF MR. KNOTT. 

Node pluit — they showered knocks. 

And knocked, knocked, knocked eternally; 
Ever upon the go, like buoys, 
(Wooden sea-urchins)^ all Knott's joys, 
They turned to trouble and a noise 
That preyed on him internally. 

Soon they grew wider in their scope ; 
Whenever Knott a door would ope. 
It would ope not, or else elope 
And fly back (curbless as a trope 
Once started down a stanza's slope 
By a bard that gave it too much rope—) 

Like a clap of thunder slamming ; 
And, when kind Jenny brought his hat, 
(She always, when he walked, did that,) 
Just as upon his head it sat. 
Submitting to his settling pat — 
Some unseen hand would jam it flat. 
Or give it such a furious bat 
That eyes and nose went cramming 
Up out of sight, and consequently. 
As when in life it paddled free. 

His beaver caused mucli damning ; 
If these things seem overstrained to be. 
Bead the account of Doctor Dee, 
'T is in our college library ; 
Eead Wesley's circumstantial plea. 
And Mrs. Crow, more like a bee. 
Sucking the nightshade's honied fee. 
And Stilling's Pneumatology ; 
Consult Scot, Glanvil, grave Wie- 

rus, and both Mathers ; further, see 



THE UNHAPPY LOT OF MR. KNOTT. 303 

Webster, Casaubon, James First^s trea- 
tise, a right royal Q. E. D. 
"Writ with the moon in perigee, 

Bodin de Demonomanie 

(Accent that last line gingerly) 

All full of learning as the sea 

Of fishes, and all disagree, 

Save in Satlianas apage ! 

Or, what will surely put a flea 

In unbelieving ears — with glee. 

Out of a paper (sent to me 

By some friend who forgot to P . . . 

A . . . Y . . . — I use cryptography 

Lest I his vengeful pen should dree — 

His P ... ... S ... T ... A ... G ... E) 

Things to the same eifect I cut, 
About the tantrums of a ghost, 
Not more than three weeks since, at most, 

Near Stratford, in Connecticut. 

[Heavens ! what a sentence that is ! 

I throw it in, though, gratis, 

And, taking* breath, anew 

Catch up my legend's clew.] 
Knott's Upas daily spread its roots, 
Sent up on all sides livelier shoots. 
And bore more pestilential fruits ; 
The ghosts behaved like downright brutes, 
They snipped holes in his Sunday suits. 
Practised all night on octave flutes, 
Put peas (not peace) into his boots. 

Whereof grew corns in season. 
They scotched his sheets, and, what was worse, 
Stuck his silk night-cap full of burs^ 



30.1: THE UNHAPPY LOT OF MR. KNOTT. 

Till he, in language plain and terse, 
(But much unlike a Bible verse), 
Swore he should lose his reason. 

Of course such doings, far and wide, 
With rumors filled the country-side, 
And (as it is our nation's pride 
To think a Truth's not verified 
Till with majorities allied,) 
Parties sprung up, affirmed, denied. 
And candidates with questions plied. 
Who like the circus-riders, tried 
At once both hobbies to bestride. 
And each with his opponent vied 

In being inexplicit. 
Earnest inquirers multiplied ; 
Folks, whose tenth cousins lately died, 
Wrote letters long, and Knott replied ; 
All who could either walk or ride. 
Gathered to wonder or deride. 

And paid the house a visit ; 
Horses were at his pine-trees tied, 
Mourners in every corner sighed, 
Widows brought children there that cried, 
Swarms of lean Seekers, eager-eyed, 
(People Knott never could abide,) 
Into each hole and cranny pried 
With strings of questions cut and dried 
From the Devout Inquirer's Guide, 
For the wise spirits to decide — 

As, for example, is it 
True that the damned are fried or boiled ? 
Was the Earth's axis greased or oiled ? 



THE UNHAPPY LOT OF MR. KNOTT. 305 

"Who cleaned the moon when it was soiled ? 

How heal diseased potatoes ? 
Did spirits have the sense of smell ? 
Where would departed spinsters dwell ? 
If the late Zenas Smith were well ? 
If Earth were solid or a shell ? 
Were spirits fond of Doctor Fell ? 
Did the bull toll Cock-Robin's knell ? 
What remedy would bugs expel ? 
If Paine's invention were sell ? 
Did spirits by Webster's system spell ? 
Was it a sin to be a belle ? 
Did dancing sentence folks to hell ? 
If so, then where most torture fell — 

On little toes or great toes ? 
If life's true seat were in the brain ? 
Did Ensign mean to marry Jane ? 
By whom, in fact, was Morgan slain ? 
Could matter ever suffer pain ? 
What would take out a cherry-stain ? 
Who picked the pocket of Seth Crane, 
Of Waldo precinct, State of Maine ? 
Was Sir John Franklin sought in vain ? 
Did primitive Christians ever train ? 
What was the family-name of Cain ? 
Them spoons, were they by Betty ta'en ? 
Would earth-worm poultice cure a sprain ? 
Was Socrates so dreadful plain ? 
What teamster guided Charles's wain ? 
Was Uncle Ethan mad or sane ? 
And could his will in force remain ? 
If not, what counsel to retain ? 
Did Le Sage steal Gil Bias from Spain ? 

20 



306 THE UNHAPPY LOT OF MR. KNOTT. 

Was Junius writ by Thomas Paine ? 

Were clucks discomforted by rain ? 

Hoiu did Britannia rule the main ? 

Was Jonas coming back again ? 

Was vital truth upon the wane ? 

Did ghosts, to scare folks, drag a chain ? 

Who was our Huldah's chosen swain ? 

Did none have teeth pulled without payin', 

Ere ether was invented ? 
Whether mankind would not agree. 
If the universe were tuned in C ? 
What was it ailed Lucindy's knee ? 
Whether folks eat folks in Feejee ? 
Whether his name would end with T ? 
If Saturn's rings were two or three ? 
And what bump in Phrenology 

They truly represented ? 
These problems dark, wherein they groped, 
Wherewith man's reason vainly coped, 
Now that the spirit world was oped, 
In all humility they hoped 

Would be resolved instanter ; 
Each of the miscellaneous rout 
Brought his, or her, own little doubt, 
And wished to pump the spirits out, 
Through his, or her, own private spout, 

Into his, or her, decanter. 

PART III. 

Wherein it is shown that the most ardent Spirits are more 
ornamental thanuseful. 

Many a speculating wight 

Came by express-trains, day and night. 



THE UNHAPPY LOT OF MR. KNOTT. 307 

To see if Knott would '' sell his right," 
Meaning to make the ghosts a sight — 

What they called a '^ meenaygerie ; " 
One threatened, if he would not " trade," 
His run of custom to invade, 
(He could not these sharp folks persuade 
That he was not, in some way, paid,) 

And stamp him as a plagiary, 
By coming down, at one fell swoop. 
With THE ORIGINAL knocking troupe 

Come recently from Hades, 
Who (for a quarter-dollar heard) 
Would ne^er rap out a hasty word 
Whence any blame might be incurred 
From the most fastidious ladies ; 
The late lamented Jesse Soule 
To stir the ghosts up with a pole 
And be director of the whole. 

Who was engaged the rather 
For the rare merits he 'd combine, 
Having been in the spirit line, 
Which trade he only did resign 
With general applause, to shine. 
Awful in mail of cotton fine. 

As ghost of Hamlet's father ! 
Another a fair plan reveals 
Never yet hit on, which, he feels. 
To Knott's religious sense appeals — 
*^ We'll have your house set up on wheels, 

A speculation pious ; 
For music we can shortly find 
A barrel-organ that will grind 
Psalm-tunes (an instrument designed 



308 THE UNHAPPY LOT OF MR. KNOTT. 

For the Xew England tour) refined 
From secular drosses, and inclined 
To an unworldly turn (combined 

With no sectarian bias ; ) 
Then, travelling by stages slow, 
Under the style of Knott & Co., 
I would accompany the show 
As moral lecturer, the foe 
Of Rationalism ; you could throw 
The rappings in, and make them go 
Strict Puritan principles, you know, 
(How do you make 'em ? with your toe ?) 
And the receipts which thence might flow. 

We could divide between us ; 
Still more attractions to combine. 
Beside these services of mine, 
I will throw in a very fine 
(It would do nicely for a sign) 
Original Titian's Venus." 
Another offered handsome fees 
If Knott would get Demosthenes. 
(Nay, his mere knuckles, for more ease,) 
To rap a few short sentences ; 
Or if, for want of proper keys. 
His Greek might make confusion. 
Then, just to get a rap from Burke, 
To recommend a little work 

On Public Elocution. 
{Non7iulla Mc desunt 
Meliora quae sunt. 

Meanwhile the spirits made replies 
To all the reverent wliats and icliys, 



THE UNHAPPY LOT OP MR. KNOTT. 309 

Resolving doubts of every size, 
And giving seekers grave and wise, 
"Who came to know their destinies, 

A rap-turous reception ; 
When unbelievers void of grace 
Came to investigate the place, 
(Creatures of Sadducistic race, 
With grovelling intellects and base) 
They could not find the slightest trace 

To indicate deception ; 
Indeed, it is declared by some 
That spirits (of this sort) are glum, 
Almost, or wholly, deaf and dumb, 
And (out of self-respect) quite mum 
To sceptic natures cold and numb. 
Who of this kind of Kingdom Come, 

Have not a just conception ; 
True, there were people who demurred 
That, though the raps no doubt were heard 

Both under them and o'er them. 
Yet, somehow, when a search they made. 
They found Miss Jenny sore afraid. 
Or Jenny's lover, Doctor Slade, 
Equally awe-struck and dismayed, 
Or Deborah, the chamber-maid. 
Whose terrors, not to be gainsaid. 
In laughs hysteric were displayed, 

Was always there before them ; 
This had its due effect with some 
Who straight departed, muttering. Hum ! 
Transparent hoax ! and Gammon ! 
But these were few ; believing souls 
Came, day by day, in larger shoals, 



310 THE UNHAPPY LOT OF MR. KNOTT. 

As the ancients to the windy holes 
^Neath Delphi's tripod brought their doles, 

Or to the shrine of Ammon. 
The spirits seemed exceeding tame, 
Call whom you fancied and he came ; 
The shades august of eldest fame 

You summoned with an awful ease ; 
As grosser spirits gurgled out 
From chair and table with a spout, 
In Auerbach's cellar once, to flout 
The senses of the rabble rout. 
Where'er the gimlet twirled about 

Of cunning Mephistopheles — 
So did these spirits seem in store. 
Behind the wainscot or the door. 
Ready to thrill the being's core 
Of every enterprising bore 

With their astounding glamour ; 
Whatever ghost one wished to hear. 
By strange coincidence, was near 
To make the past or future clear, 

(Sometimes in shocking grammar,) 
By raps and taps, now there, now here — 
It seemed as if the spirit queer 
Of some departed auctioneer 
Were doomed to practise by the year 

With the spirit of his hammer ; 
Whate'er you asked was answered, yet 
One could not very deeply get 
Into the obliging spirits' debt, 

ecause they used the alphabet 

In all communications. 
And new revealings (though sublime) 



THE UNHAPPY LOT OF MR. KNOTT. 311 

Rapped out, one letter at a time, 

With boggles, hesitations, 
Stoppings, beginnings o'er again. 
And getting matters into train. 
Could hardly overload the brain 

AVith too excessive rations. 
Since just to ask if two a7id tiuo 
Really make four 9 or, Hoiu d' ye do9 
And get the fit replies thereto 
In the tramundane rat-tat-too, 

Might ask a whole day's patience. 

'T was strange ('mongst other things) to find 
In what odd sets the ghosts combined, 

Happy forthwith to thump any 
Piece of intelligence inspired, 
The truth whereof had been inquired 

By some one of the company ; 
For instance. Fielding, Mirabeau, 
Orator Henley, Cicero, 
Paley, John Zisca, Marivaux, 
Melanchthon, Robertson, Junot, 
Scaliger, Chesterfield, Rousseau, 
Hakluyt, Boccaccio, South, De Foe, 
Diaz, Josephus, Richard Roe, 
Odin, Arminius, Charles le gros. 
Tiresias, the late James Crow, 
Casablanca, Grose, Prideaux, 
Old Grimes, young Korval, Swift, Brissot, 
Maimonides, the Chevalier D ^0, 
Socrates, Fenelon, Job, Stow, 
The inventor of Elixir pro, 
Euripides, Spinoza, Poe, 



312 THE UNHAPPY LOT OF MR. KNOTT. 

Confucius, Hiram Smith, and Fo, 
Came (as it seemed, somewhat de trop) 
With a disembodied Esquimaux, 
To say that it was so and so. 

With Franklin's Expedition ; 
One testified to ice and snow. 
One that the mercury was low, 
One that his progress was quite slow, 
One that he much desired to go, 
One that the cook had frozen his toe, 
(Dissented from by Dandolo, 
Wordsworth, Cynaegirus, Boileau, 
La Hontan and Sir Thomas Roe,) 
One saw twelve white bears in a row, 
One saw eleven and a crow, 
With other things we could not know 
(Of great statistic value, though) 

By our mere mortal vision. 
Sometimes the spirits made mistakes, 
And seemed to play at ducks and drakes. 
With bold inquiry's heaviest stakes 

In science or in mystery ; 
They knew so little (and that wrong) 
Yet rapped it out so bold and strong, 
One would have said the entire throng 

Had been Professors of History ; 
What made it odder was, that those 
Who, you would naturally suppose, 
Could solve a question, if they chose, 
As easily as count their toes 

Were just the ones that blundered ; 
One day, Ulysses happening down, 
A reader of Sir Thomas Browne 



THE UNHAPPY LOT OF MR. KNOTT. 313 

And who (with him) had wondered 
What song it was the Sirens sang, 
Asked the shrewd Ithacan — bang ! hang ! 
With this response the chamber rang, 

*'I guess it was Old Hundred.' 
And Franklin, being asked to name 
The reason why the lightning came, 

Replied, ^' Because it thundered." 

On one sole point the ghosts agreed, 
One fearful point, than which, indeed, 

Nothing could seem absurder ; 
Poor Colonel Jones they all abused. 
And finally downright accused 

The poor old man of murder ; 
'T was thus ; by dreadful raps was shown 
Some spirit's longing to make known 
A bloody fact, which he alone 
A¥as privy to, (such ghosts more prone 

In Earth's affairs to meddle are ;) 
Who are you ? with awe-stricken looks, 
All ask : his airy knuckles he crooks, 
And raps, *^I was Eliab Snooks, 

That used to be a pedler ; 
Some on ye still are on my books ! " 
Whereat, to inconspicuous nooks, 
(More fearing this than common spooks,) 

Shrank each indebted meddler ; 
Further the vengeful ghost declared 
That while his earthly life was spared. 
About the country he had fared, 

A duly licensed follower 
Of that much-wandering trade that wins 



314 THE UNHAPPY LOT OF MR KNOTT. 

Slow profit from the sale of tins, 

And various kinds of hollow-ware ; 
That Colonel Jones enticed him in 
Pretending that he wanted tin, 
There slew him with a rolling-pin. 
Hid him in a potato-bin, 

And (the same night) him ferried 
Across Great Pond to t' other shore, 
And there on land of Widow Moore, 
Just where you turn to Larkin's store, 

Under a rock him buried ; 
Some friends (who happened to be by) 
He called upon to testify 
That what he said was not a lie, 

And that he did not stir this 
Foul matter out of any spite 
But from a simple love of right ; — 

Which statement the Xine Worthies, 
Rabbi Akiba, Charlemagne, 
Seth, Colley Cibber, General Wayne, 
Cambyses, Tasso, Tubal-Cain, 
The owner of a castle in Spain, 
Jehangire and the Widow of Nain, 
(The friends aforesaid) made more plain 

And by loud raps attested ; 
To the same purport testified 
Plato, John Wilkes and Colonel Pride 
Who knew said Snooks before he died, 

Had in his wares invested. 
Thought him entitled to belief 
And freely could concur, in brief 

In everything the rest did. 



THE UNHAPPY LOT OF MR. KNOTT. 315 

Eliab this occasion seized, 
(Distinctly here the Spirit sneezed) 
To say that he should ne'er be eased 
Till Jenny married whom she pleased, 

Free from all checks and urgin's 
(This spirit dropped his final g's) 
And that, unless Knott quickly sees 
This done, the spirits to appease, 
They would come back his life to tease 
As thick as mites in ancient cheese, 
And let his house on an endless lease 
To the ghosts (terrific rappers these 
And veritable Eumenides,) 

Of the Eleven Thousand Virgins ! 

Knott was perplexed and shook his head, 
He did not wish his child to wed 

With a suspected murderer, 
(For,- true or false, the rumor spread,) 
But as for this riled life he led, 
"It would not answer, '^ so he said, 

'* To have it go no furderer." 

At last, scarce knowing what it meant, 
Reluctantly he gave consent 
That Jenny, since 't was evident 
That she would follow her own bent, 

Should make her own election ; 
For that appeared the only way 
These frightful noises to allay 
Which had already turned him gray 

And plunged him in dejection. 



316 THE UNHAPPY LOT OF MR. KNOTT. 

Accordingly^, this artless maid 

Her father's ordinance obeyed. 

And, all in whitest crape arrayed, 

(Miss Pulsifer the dresses made 

And wishes here the fact displayed 

That she still carries on the trade, 

The third door south from Bagg's Arcade,) 

A very faint '^ I do " essayed 

And gave her hand to Hiram Slade, 

From which time forth, the ghosts were laid ; 

. And ne'er gave trouble after ; 
But the Selectmen, be it known, 
Dug underneath the aforesaid stone. 
Where the poor pedler's corpse was thrown. 
And found thereunder a jaw-bone. 
Though, when the crowner sat thereon. 
He nothing hatched, except alone 

Successive broods of laughter ; 
It was a frail and dingy thing, 
In which a grinder or two did cling. 

In color like molasses. 
Which surgeons, called from far and wide, 
Upon the horror to decide. 

Having put on their glasses, 
Keported thus — " To judge by looks. 
These bones, by some queer hooks or crooks, 
May have belonged to Mr. Snooks, 
But, as men deepest read in books 

Are perfectly aware, bones. 
If buried, fifty years or so. 
Lose their identity and grow 

From human bones to bare bones." 



THE UNHAPPY LOT OF MR. KNOTT. 317 

Still, if to Jaalam you go down. 
You '11 find two parties in the town. 
One headed by Benaiah Brown, 

And one by Perez Tinkham ; 
The first believe the ghosts all through. 
And vow that they shall never rue 
The happy chance by which they knew 
That people in Jupiter are blue, 
And very fond of Irish stew. 
Two curious facts which Prince Lee Boo 
Rapped clearly to a chosen few — 

Whereas the others think 'em 
A trick got up by Doctor Slade 
With Deborah the chamber-maid 

And that sly cretur Jenny, 
That all the revelations wise. 
At which the Brownites made big eyes, 
Might have been given by Jared Keyes, 

A natural fool and ninny. 
And, last week, did n't Eliab Snooks, 
Come back with never better looks. 
As sharp as new bought mackerel hooks, 

And bright as a new pin, eh ? 
Good Parson Wilbur, too, avers 
(Though to be mixed in parish stirs 
Is worse than handling chestnut-burs) 
That no case to his mind occurs 
Where spirits ever did converse 
Save in a kind of guttural Erse, 

(So say the best authorities ;) 
And that a charge by raps conveyed, 
Should be most scrupulously weighed 
. And searched into before it is 



318 HAKON'S LAY. 

Made public, since it may give pain 
That cannot soon be cured again, 
And one word may infix a stain 

Which ten cannot glo&s over, 
Though speaking for his private part, 
He is rejoiced with all his heart 

Miss Knott missed not her lover. 
December, 1850. 



HAKON'S LAY. 

Thek Thorstein looked at Hakon, where he sate, 
Mute as a cloud amid the stormy hall. 
And said : ^^0, Skald, sing now an olden song. 
Such as our fathers heard who led great lives ; 
And, as the bravest on a shield is borne 
Along the waving host that shouts him king. 
So rode their thrones upon the thronging seas ! '' 

Then the old man arose, white-haired he stood, 

White-bearded, and with eyes that looked afar 

From their still region of perpetual snow. 

Over the little smokes and stirs of men : 

His head was bowed with gathered flakes of years. 

As winter bends the sea-foreboding pine, 

But something triumphed in his brow and eye. 

Which whoso saw it, could not see and crouch : 

Loud rang the emptied beakers as he mused. 

Brooding his eyried thoughts ; then, as an eagle 

Circles smooth-winged above the wind-vexed woods.. 

So wheeled his soul into the air of song 

High o'er the stormy hall ; and thus he sang : 



HAKON'S LAY. 319 

*' The fletcher for his arrow-shaft picks out 

Wood closest-grained, long-seasoned, straight as light ; 

And, from a quiver full of such as these. 

The wary bow-man, matched against his peers, 

Long doubting, singles yet once more the best. 

Who is it that can make such shafts as Fate ? 

What archer of his arrows is so choice. 

Or hits the white so surely ? They are men, 

The chosen of her quiver ; nor for her 

Will every reed suffice, or cross-grained stick 

At random from life's vulgar fagot plucked : 

Such answer household ends ; but she will have 

Souls straight and clear, of toughest fibre, sound 

Down to the heart of heart ; from these she strips 

All needless stuff, all sapwood, hardens them, 

From circumstance untoward feathers plucks 

Crumpled and cheap, and barbs with iron will : 

The hour that passes is her quiver-boy ; 

AVhen she draws bow, ^t is not across the wind. 

Nor Against the sun, her haste-snatched arrow sings. 

For sun and wind have plighted faith to her : 

Ere men have heard the sinew twang, behold. 

In the butt's heart her trembling messenger ! 



''The song is old and simple that I sing : 
Good were the days of yore, when men were tried 
By ring of shields, as now by ring of gold ; 
But, while the gods are left, and hearts of men. 
And the free ocean, still the days are good ; 
Through the broad Earth roams Opportunity 
And knocks at every door of hut or hall, 
Until she finds the brave soul that she wants," 



320 TO THE FUTURE. 

He ceased, and instantly the frothy tide 
Of interrupted wassail roared along ; 
But Leif, the son of Eric, sate apart 
Musing, and, with his eyes upon the fire, 
Saw shapes of arrows, lost as soon as seen ; 
But then with that resolve his heart was bent. 
Which, like a humming shaft, through many a strife 
Of day and night across the unventured seas. 
Shot the brave prow to cut on Vinland sands 
The first rune in the Saga of the West. 



TO THE FUTUEE. 

0, Lais'D of Promise ! from what Pisgah's height 

Can I behold thy stretch of peaceful bowers ? 
Thy golden harvests flowing out of sight. 

Thy nestled homes and sun-illumined towers ? 
Gazing upon the sunset's high-heaped gold, 

Its crags of opal and of chrysolite, 
Its deeps on deeps of glory that unfold 
Still brightening abysses. 
And blazing precipices. 
Whence but a scanty leap it seems to heaven. 

Sometimes a glimpse is given, 
Of thy more gorgeous realm, thy more unstinted 
blisses. 

0, Land of Quiet ! to thy shore the surf 
Of the perturbed Present rolls and sleeps ; 

Our storms breathe soft as June upon thy turf 
And lure out blossoms ; to thy bosom leaps, 

As to a mother's, the o'er wearied heart. 



TO THE FUTURE. 321 

Hearing far off and dim the toiling mart, 

The hurrying feet, the curses without number. 
And, circled with the glow Elysian, 
Of thine exulting vision, 

Out of its very cares wooes charms for peace and 
slumber. 



To thee the Earth lifts up her fettered hands 

And cries for vengeance ; with a pitying smile 
Thou blessest her, and she forgets her bands. 

And her old woe-worn face a little while 
Grows young and noble ; unto thee the Oppressor 
Looks, and is dumb with awe ; 
The eternal law 
Which makes the crime its own blindfold redresser, 
Shadows his heart with perilous foreboding, 
And he can see the grim-eyed Doom 
From out the trembling gloom 
Its silent-footed steeds toward his palace goading. 

What promises hast thou for Poet's eyes. 
Aweary of the turmoil and the wrong ! 
To all their hopes what over-joyed replies ! 

What undreamed ecstasies for blissful song ! 
Thy happy plains no war-trump's brawling clangor 

Disturbs, and fools the poor to hate the poor ; 
The humble glares not on the high with auger ; 

Love leaves no grudge at less, no greed for more ; 
In vain strives Self the godlike sense to smother ; 
From the soul's deeps 
It throbs and leaps ; 
The noble 'neath foul rags beholds his long-lost brother, 
31 



322 TO THE FUTURE. 

To thee the Martyr looketh, and his fires 
Unlock their fangs and leave his spirit free ; 

To thee the Poet ^mid his toil aspires, 
And grief and hunger climb about his knee 

Welcome as children ; thou upholdest 

The lone Inventor by his demon haunted ; 

The Prophet cries to thee when hearts are coldest. 
And, gazing o'er the midnight's bleak abyss. 
Sees the drowsed soul awaken at thy kiss. 

And stretch its happy arms and leap up disenchanted. 

Thou bringest vengeance, but so loving kindly 

The guilty thinks it pity ; taught by thee 
Fierce tyrants drop the scourges wherewith blindly 

Their own souls they were scarring ; conquerors see 
With horror in their hands the accursed spear 

That tore the meek One's side on Calvary, 
And from their trophies shrink with ghastly fear ; 

Thou, too, art the Forgiver, 
The beauty of mane's soul to man revealing ; 

The arrows from thy quiver 
Pierce error's guilty heart, but only pierce for healing. 

0, whither, whither, glory-winged dreams. 

From out Life's sweat and turmoil would ye bear 



me 



'? 



Shut, gates of Fancy, on your golden gleams. 

This agony of hopeless contrast spare me ! 
Fade, cheating glow, and leave me to my night ! 
He is a coward who would borrow 
A charm against the present sorrow 
From the vague Future's promise of delight : 
As life's alarums nearer roll, 



OUT OF DOORS. 323 

The ancestral buckler calls. 
Self-clanging, from the walls 
In the high temple of the soul ; 
Where are most sorrows, there the poet's sphere is, 
To feed the soul with patience. 
To heal its desolations 
"With words of unshorn truth, with love that never 
wearies. 



OUT OF DOORS. 

'T IS good to be abroad in the sun, 
His gifts abide when day is done ; 
Each thing in nature from his cup 
Gathers a several virtue up ; 
The grace within its being's reach 
Becomes the nutriment of each. 
And the same life imbibed by all 
Makes each most individual : 
Here the twig-bending peaches seek 
The glow that mantles in their cheek — 
Hence comes the Indian-summer bloom 
That hazes round the basking plum. 
And, from the same impartial light, 
The grass sucks green, the lily white. 

Like these the soul, for sunshine made, 
Grows wan and gracile in the shade. 
Her faculties, which God decreed 
Various as Summer's daedal breed. 
With one sad color are imbued, 
Shut from the sun that tints their blood ; 



324 ^UT OF DOORS. 

The shadow of the poet's roof 
Deadens the dyes of warp and woof ; 
Whatever of ancient song remains 
Has fresh air flowing in its veins. 
For Greece and eldest Ind knew well 
That out of doors, with world-wide swell 
Arches the student's lawful cell. 

Away, unfruitful lore of books. 

For whose vain idiom we reject 

The spirit^'s mother-dialect, 

Aliens among the birds and brooks. 

Dull to interpret or believe 

What gospels lost the woods retrieve. 

Or what the eaves-dropping violet 

Eeports from God, who walketh yet 

His garden in the hush of eve ! 

Away, ye pedants city -bred, 

Unwise of heart, too wise of head, 

Who handcuff Art with thus and so. 

And in each other's footprints tread. 

Like those who walk through drifted snow ; 

Who, from deep study of brick walls 
Conjecture of the water-falls, 
By six square feet of smoke-stained sky 
Compute those deeps that overlie 
The still tarn's heaven-anointed eye, 

And, in your earthen crucible, 
With chemic tests essay to spell 
How nature works in field and dell ! 
Seek we where Shakspeare buried gold ? 
Such hands no charmed witch-hazel hold; 
To beach and rock repeats the sea 



A HEVERIE. 325 

The mystic 0;je7i Sesame ; 
Old Greylock's voices not in vain 
Comment on Milton's mountain strain. 
And cunningly the various wind 
Spenser's locked music can unbind. 



A REVERIE. 

In the twilight deep and silent 

Comes thy spirit unto mine, 

When the moonlight and the starlight 

Over cliff and woodland shine, 

And the quiver of the river 

Seems a thrill of joy benign. 

Then I rise and wander slowly 
To the headland by the sea, 
When the evening star throbs setting 
Through the cloudy cedar tree, 
And from under, mellow thunder 
Of the surf comes fitfully. 

Then within my soul I feel thee 
Like a gleam of other years. 
Visions of my childhood murmur 
Their old madness in my ears. 
Till the pleasance of thy presence 
Cools my heart with blissful tears. 

All the wondrous dreams of boyhood — 

All youth's fiery thirst of praise — 

All the surer hopes of manhood 

Blossoming in sadder days — 

Joys that bound me, griefs that crowned me 



326 A REVERIE. 

With a better wreath than bays — 
All the longings after freedom — 
The vague love of human kind, 
Wandering far and near at random 
Like a winged seed in the wind — 
The dim yearnings and fierce burnings 
Of an undirected mind — 

All of these, oh best beloved, 
Happiest present dreams and past. 
In thy love find safe fulfilment, 
Eipened into truths at last ; 
Faith and beauty, hope and duty 
To one centre gather fast. 

How my nature, like an ocean, 
At the breath of thine awakes. 
Leaps its shores in mad exulting 
And in foamy thunder breaks, 
Then downsinking, lieth shrinking 
At the tumult that it makes ! 

Blazing Hesperus hath sunken 
Low within the pale-blue west. 
And with golden splendor crowneth 
The horizon^s piny crest ; 
Thoughtful quiet stills the riot 
Of wild longing in my breast. 
Home I loiter through the moonlight. 
Underneath the quivering trees. 
Which, as if a spirit stirred them. 
Sway and bend, till by degrees 
. The far surge's murmur merges 
In the rustle of the breeze. 



IN SADNESS. 327 

m SADNESS. 

There is not in this life of ours 

One bliss unmixed with fears, 
The hope that wakes our deepest powers 

A face of sadness wears, 
And the dew that showers our dearest flowers 

Is the bitter dew of tears. 

Fame waiteth long, and lingereth 

Through weary nights and moms — 
And evermore the shadow Death 

With mocking finger scorns 
That underneath the laurel wreath 

Should be a wreath of thorns. 

The laurel leaves are cool and green. 

But the thorns are hot and sharp. 
Lean Hunger grins and stares between 

The poet and his harp ; 
Though of Love's sunny sheen his woof have been. 

Grim want thrusts in the warp. 

And if beyond this darksome clime 

Some fair star Hope may see, 
That keeps unjarred the blissful chime 

Of its golden infancy — 
Where the harvest-time of faith sublime 

Not always is to be — 

Yet would the true soul rather choose 

Its home where sorrow is. 
Than in a sated peace to lose 

Its life's supremest bliss — 



328 IN SADNESS. 

The rainbow hues that bend profuse 
O'er cloudy spheres like this — 

The want, the sorrow and the pain, 
That are Love's right to cure — 

The sunshine bursting after rain — 
The gladness insecure 

That makes us fain strong hearts to gain 
To do and to endure. 

High natures must be thunder-scarred 
With many a searing wrong ; 

From mother Sorrow's breasts the bard 
Sucks gifts of deepest song. 

Nor all unmarred with struggles hard 
Wax the Soul's sinews strong. 

Dear Patience, too, is born of woe. 

Patience that opes the gate 
Wherethrough the soul of man must go 

Up to each noble state, 
Whose voice's flow so meek and low 

Smooths the bent brows of Fate. 

Though Fame be slow, yet Death is swift. 

And, o'er the spirit's eyes, 
Life after life doth change and shift 

With larger destinies : 
As on we drift, some wider rift 

Shows us serener skies. 

And though naught falleth to us here 

But gains the world counts loss. 
Though all we hope of wisdom clear 



FAREWELL. 329 

"When climbed to seems but dross. 
Yet all, though ne'er Christ's faith they wear. 
At least may share his cross. 



FAEEWELL. 

Parewell ! as the bee round the blossom 

Doth murmur drowsily, 

So murmureth round my bosom 

The memory of thee , 

Lingering, it seems to go, 

When the wind more full doth flow 

Waving the flower to and fro. 

But still returneth, Marian ! 

My hope no longer burneth. 

Which did so fiercely burn. 

My joy to sorrow turneth. 

Although loath, loath to turn — 

I would forget — 

And yet — and yet 

My heart to thee still yearneth, Marian ! 

Fair as a single star thou shinest. 

And white as lilies are 

The slender hands wherewith thou twinest 

Thy heavy auburn hair ; 

Thou art to me 

A memory 

Of all that is divinest : 

Thou art so fair and tall. 

Thy looks so queenly are. 

Thy very shadow on the wall. 



330 FAREWELL. 

Thy step upon the stair, 
The thought that thou art nigh, 
The chance look of thine eye - 
Are more to me than all, Marian, 
And will be till I die ! 

As the last quiver of a bell 

Doth fade into the air, 

With a subsiding swell 

That dies we know not where. 

So my hope melted and was gone : 

I raised mine eyes to bless the star 

That shared its light with me so far 

Below its silver throne. 

And gloom and chilling vacancy 

Were all was left to me, 

In the dark, bleak night I was alone ! 

Alone in the blessed Earth, Marian, 

For what were all to me — 

Its love, and light, and mirth, Marian, 

If I were not with thee ? 

My heart will not forget thee 
More than the moaning brine 
Forgets the moon when she is set ; 
The gush when first I met thee 
That thrilled my brain like wine. 
Doth thrill as madly yet ; 
My heart cannot forget thee, 
Though it may droop and pine. 
Too deeply it had set thee 
In every love of mine ; 
No new moon ever cometh, 



FAREWELL. 331 

No flower ever bloometh. 
No twilight ever gloometh, 
But I'm more only thine. 
Oh look not on me, Marian, 
Thine eyes are wild and deep, 
And they have won me, Marian, 
From peacefulness and sleep ; 
The sunlight doth not sun me. 
The meek moonshine doth shun me.. 
All sweetest voices stun me — 
There is no rest 
Within my breast 
And I can only weep, Marian ! 

As a landbird far at sea 

Doth wander through the sleet 

And drooping downward wearily 

Finds no rest for her feet, 

So wandereth my memory 

O'er the years when we did meet : 

I used to say that everything 

Partook a share of thee, 

That not a little bird could sing. 

Or green leaf flutter on a tree. 

That nothing could be beautiful 

Save part of thee were there. 

That from thy soul so clear and full 

All bright and blessed things did cull 

The charm to make them fair ; 

And now I know 

That it was so, 

Thy spirit through the earth doth flow 

And face me whereso'er I go — 



332 FAREWELL. 

What right hath perfectness to give 
Such weary weight of woe 
Unto the soul which cannot live 
On anything more low ? 
Oh leave me, leave me, Marian, 
There 's no fair thing 1 see 
But doth deceive me, Marian, 
Into sad dreams of thee ! 

A cold snake gnaws my heart 

And crushes round my brain, 

And I should glory but to part 

So bitterly again, 

Feeling the slow tears start 

And fall in fiery rain : 

There's a wide ring round the moon. 

The ghost-like clouds glide by. 

And I hear the sad winds croon 

A dirge to the lowering sky ; 

There 's nothing soft or mild 

In the pale moon's sickly light. 

But all looks strange and wild 

Through the dim, foreboding night : 

I think thou must be dead 

In some dark and lonely place. 

With candles at thy head. 

And a pall above thee spread 

To hide thy dead, cold face ; 

But I can see thee underneath 

So pale, and still, and fair. 

Thine eyes closed smoothly and a wreath 

Of flowers in thy hair ; 

I nevei" sa^^^ thy face so Qle^,? 



A DIRGE. 333 



When thou wast with the living, 

As now beneath the pall, so drear, 

And stiff, and unforgiving ; 

I cannot flee thee, Marian, 

I cannot turn away. 

Mine eyes must see thee, Marian, 

Through salt tears night and day. 



A DIRGE. 

Poet ! lonely is thy bed, 
And the turf is overhead — 

Cold earth is thy cover ; 
But thy heart hath found release, 
And it slumbers full of peace 
'Neath the rustle of green trees 
And the warm hum of the bees, 

'Mid the drowsy clover ; 
Through thy chamber, still as death, 
A smooth gurgle wandereth. 
As the blue stream murmureth 

To the blue sky over. 

Three paces from the silver strand. 
Gently in the fine, white sand. 
With a lily in thy hand. 

Pale as snow, they laid thee ; 
In no coarse earth wast thou hid. 
And no gloomy coffin-lid 

Darkly overweighed thee. 
Silently as snow-flakes drift. 
The smooth sand did sift and sift 



334 A DIRGE. 

O'er the bed they made thee ; 
All sweet birds did come and sing 
At thy sunny burying — 

Choristers unbidden, 
And, beloved of sun and dew, 
Meek forget-me-nots upgrew 
Where thine eyes so large and blue 

'Neath the turf were hidden. 

Where thy stainless clay doth lie, 
Blue and open is the sky, 
And the white clouds wander by, 
Dreams of summer silently 

Darkening the river ; 
Thou hearest the clear water run ; 
And the ripples every one. 
Scattering the golden sun. 

Through thy silence quiver ; 
Vines trail down upon the stream, 
Into its smooth and glassy dream 

A green stillness spreading. 
And the shiner, perch, and bream 
Through, the shadowed waters gleam 

'Gainst the current heading. 

White as snow, thy winding sheet 
Shelters thee from head to feet. 

Save thy pale face only ; 
Thy face is turned toward the skies, 
The lids lie meekly o'er thine eyes. 
And the low-voiced pine-tree sighs 

O'er thy bed so lonely. 
All thy life thou lov'dst its shade ; 



A DIRGE. 335 

Underneath it tho^ art laid, 

In an endless shelter ; 
Thou hearest it forever sigh 
As the wind's vague longings die 
In its branches dim and high — 
Thou hear'st the waters gliding by 

Slumberously welter. 

Thou wast full of love and truth. 

Of forgiveness and ruth — 

Thy great heart with hope and youth 

Tided to o'erflowing. 
Thou didst dwell in mysteries, 
And there lingered on thine eyes 
Shadows of serener skies, 
Awfully wild memories, 

That were like foreknowing ; 
Through the earth thou would'st have gone, 
Lighted from within alone. 
Seeds from flowers in Heaven grown 

With a free hand sowing. 

Thou didst remember well and long 

Some fragments of thine angel-song, 

And strive, through want of woe and wrong, 

To win the world unto it ; 
Thy sin it was to see and hear 
Beyond To-day's dim hemisphere — 
Beyond all mists of hope and fear, 
Into a life more true and clear. 

And dearly thou didst rue it ; 
Light of the new world thou hadst won, 
O'erflooded by a purer sun — 



336 A DIRGE. 

Slowly Fate's ship came drifting on, 
And through the dark, save thou, not one 

Caught of the land a token. 
Thou stood'st upon the farthest prow. 
Something within thy soul said " Now \" 
And leaping forth with eager brow. 

Thou feirst on shore heart-broken. 

Long time thy brethren stood in fear ; 
Only the breakers far and near. 
White with their anger, they could hear ; 
The sounds of land, whicli thy quick ear 

Caught long ago, they heard not. 
And, when at last they reached the strand. 
They found thee lying on the sand 
With some wild flowers in thy hand, 

But thy cold bosom stirred not ; 
They listened, but they heard no sound 
Save from the glad life all around 

A low, contented murmur. 
The long grass flowed adown the hill, 
A hum rose from a hidden rill, 
But thy glad heart, that knew no ill 
But too much love, lay dead and still — 
The only thing that sent a chill 

Into the heart of summer. 
Thou didst not seek the poet's wreath 

But too soon didst win it ; 
Without 'i was green, but underneath 
Were scorn and loneliness and death. 
Gnawing the brain with burning teeth. 

And making mock within it. 
Thou, who wast full of nobleness, 



A DIRGE. 337 

Whose very life-blood 't was to bless. 

Whose soul's one law was giving, 
Must bandy words with wickedness. 
Haggle with hunger and distress. 
To win that death which worldliness 

Calls bitterly a living. 

'' Thou sow'st no gold, and shalt not reap ! " 

Muttered earth, turning in her sleep ; 

'^ Come home to the Eternal Deep ! '^ 

Murmured a voice, and a wide sweep 

Of wings through thy souFs hush did creep. 

As of thy doom overflying ; 
It seemed that thy strong heart would leap 
Out of thy breast, and thou didst weep. 

But not with fear of dying ; 
Men could not fathom thy deep fears. 
They could not understand thy tears. 
The hoarded agony of years 

Of bitter self-denying. 
So once, when high above the spheres 
Thy spirit sought its starry peers. 
It came not back to face the jeers 

Of brothers who denied it ; 
Star-crowned, thou dost possess the deeps 
Of God, and thy white body sleeps 
Where the lone pine forever keeps 

Patient watch beside it. 

Poet ! underneath the turf. 

Soft thou sleepest, free from morrow, 

Thou hast struggled through the surf 
Of wild thoughts and want and sorrow. 

M 



338 A DIRGE. 

'Now, beneath the moaning pine, 

Full of rest, thy body lieth, 
While far up is clear sunshine, 
Underneath a sky divine. 

Her loosed wings thy spirit trieth ; 
Oft she strove to spread them here. 
But they were too white and clear 
For our dingy atmosphere. 

Thy body findeth ample room 
In its still and grassy tomb 

By the silent river ; 
But thy spirit found the earth 
Narrow for the mighty birth 

Which it dreamed of ever ; 
Thou wast guilty of a rhyme 
Learned in a benigner clime. 
And of that more grievous crime. 
An ideal too sublime 
For the low-hung sky of Time. 

The calm spot where thy body lies 
Gladdens thy soul in Paradise, 

It is so still and holy ; 
Thy body sleeps serenely there. 
And well for it thy soul may care. 
It was so beautiful and fair, 

Lily white so wholly. 

From so pure and sweet a frame 
Thy spirit parted as it came, 

Gentle as a maiden ; 
J^ow it lieth full of rest — 



FANCIES ABOUT A ROSEBUD, 339 

Sods are lighter on its breast 
Than the great, prophetic guest 
Wherewith it was laden. 



FANCIES ABOUT A ROSEBUD, 

PEESSED lij^ Aif OLD COPY OF SPENSEK. 

Who prest you here ? The Past can tell, 
When summer skies were bright above, 

And some full heart did leap and swell 
Beneath the white new moon of love. 

Some Poet, haply, when the world 

Showed like a calm sea, grand and blue. 

Ere its cold, inky waves had curled 

O'er the numb heart once warm and true ; 

When, with his soul brimful of morn. 
He looked beyond the vale of Time, 

JSTor saw therein the dullard scorn 
That made his heavenliness a crime ; 

When, musing o'er the Poets olden, 

His soul did like a sun upstart 
To shoot its arrows, clear and golden. 

Through slavery's cold and darksome heart. 

Alas ! too soon the veil is lifted 

That hangs between the soul and pain, 

Too soon the morning-red hath drifted 
Into dull cloud, or fallen in rain I 



S40 FANCIES ABOUT A ROSEBUD, 

Or were you prest by one who nurst 
Bleak memories of love gone by, 

Whose heart, like a star fallen, burst 
In dark and erring vacancy ? 

To him you still were fresh and green 
As when you grew upon the stalk, 

And many a breezy summer scene 

Came back — and many a moonlit walk ; 

And there would be a hum of bees, 
A smell of childhood in the air, 

And old, fresh feelings cooled the breeze 
That, like loved fingers, stirred his hair ! 

Then would you suddenly be blasted 
By the keen wind of one dark thought. 

One nameless woe, that had outlasted 
The sudden blow whereby 't was brought. 

Or were you prest here by two lovers 
Who seemed to read these verses rare. 

But found between the antique covers 
AVhat Spenser could not prison there : 

Songs which his glorious soul had heard, 
But his dull pen could never write. 

Which flew, like some gold-winged bird, 
Through the blue heaven out of sight ? 

My heart is with them as they sit, 
I see the rosebud in her breast, 

I see her small hand taking it 

From out its odorous, snowy nest ; 



NEW YEAR'S EVE, 1844. 341 

I hear him swear that he will keep it, 

In memory of that blessed day, 
To smile on it or over-weep it 

When she and spring are far away. 

Ah me ! I needs must droop my head. 

And brush away a happy tear, 
For they are gone, and, dry and dead. 

The rosebud lies before me here. 

Yet is it in no stranger's hand. 

For I will guard it tenderly. 
And it shall be a magic wand 

To bring mine own true love to me. 

My heart runs o'er with sweet surmises. 
The while my fancy weaves her rhyme. 

Kind hopes and musical surprises 

Throng round me from the olden time. 

I do not care to know who prest you : 

Enough for me to feel and know 
That some heart's love and longing blest you, 

Knitting to-day with long-ago. 



NEW YEAE'S EVE, 1844. 

A FRAGMENT. 

The night is calm and beautiful ; the snow 
Sparkles beneath the clear and frosty moon 
And the cold stars, as if it took delight 
In its own silent whiteness ; the hushed earth 
Sleeps in the soft arms of the embracing blue. 



342 NEW YEAR'S EVE, 1844. 

Secure as if angelic squadrons yet 

Encamped about her, and each watching star 

Gained double brightness from the flashing arms 

Of winged and unsleeping sentinels. 

Upward the calm of infinite silence deepens, 

The sea that flows between high heaven and earth, 

Musing by whose smooth brink we sometimes find 

A stray leaf floated from those happier shores. 

And hope, perchance not vainly, that some flower, 

Which we had watered with our holiest tears. 

Pale blooms, and yet our scanty garden's best, 

O'er the same ocean piloted by love. 

May flnd a haven at the feet of God, 

And be not wholly worthless in his sight. 

0, high dependence on a higher Power, 

Sole stay for all these restless faculties 

That wander, Ishmael-like, the desert bare 

Wherein our human knowledge hath its home. 

Shifting their light-framed tents from day to day. 

With each new-found oasis, wearied soon. 

And only certain of uncertainty ! 

0, mighty humbleness that feels with awe, 

Yet with a vast exulting feels, no less. 

That this huge Minister of the Universe, 

Whose smallest oratories are glorious worlds. 

With painted oriels of dawn and sunset ; 

Whose carved ornaments are systems grand, 

Orion kneeling in his starry niche. 

The Lyre whose strings give music audible 

To holy ears, and countless splendors more. 

Crowned by the blazing Cross high-hung o'er all ; 

Whose organ music is the solemn stops 

Of endless Change breathed through by endless Good ; 



NEW YEAR'S EVE, 1844. 343 

Whose choristers are all the morning stars ; 

Whose altar is the sacred human heart 

Whereon Love's candles burn unquenchably. 

Trimmed day and night by gentle-handed Peace ; 

With all its arches and its pinnacles 

That stretch forever and forever up, 

Is founded on the silent heart of God, 

Silent, yet pulsing forth exhaustless life 

Through the least veins of all created things. 

Fit musings these for the departing year ; 

And God be thanked for such a crystal night 

As fills the spirit with good store of thoughts, 

That, like a cheering fire of walnut, crackle 

Upon the hearthstone of the heart, and cast 

A mild-home glow o'er all Humanity ! 

Yes, though the poisoned shafts of the evil doubts 

Assail the skyey panoply of Faith, 

Though the great hopes which we have had for man. 

Foes in disguise, because they based belief 

On man^s endeavor, not on God's decree — 

Though these proud- visaged hopes, once turned to fly. 

Hurl backward many a deadly Parthian dart 

That rankles in the soul and makes it sick 

With vain regret, nigh verging on despair — 

Yet, in such calm and earnest hours as this. 

We well can feel how every living heart 

That sleeps to-night in palace or in cot. 

Or unroofed hovel, or which need hath known 

Of other homestead than the arching sky. 

Is circled watchfully with seraph fires ; 

How our own erring will it is that hangs 

The flaming sword o'er Eden's unclosed gate, 

Which gives free entrance to the pure in heart, 



344 NEW YEAR'S EVE, 1844. 

And with its guarding walls dotli fence the meek. 

Sleep then, Earth, in thy blue-vaulted cradle. 

Bent over always by thy mother Heaven ! 

We all are tall enough to reach God's hand, 

And angels are no taller : looking back 

Upon the smooth wake of a year o'erpast, 

We see the black clouds furling, one by one, 

From the advancing majesty of Truth, 

And something won for Freedom, whose least gain 

Is as a firm and rock-built citadel 

Wherefrom to launch fresh battle on her foes ; 

Or, leaning from the time's extremest prow. 

If we gaze forward through the blinding spray, 

And dimly see how much of ill remains, 

How many fetters to be sawn asunder 

By the slow toil of individual zeal. 

Or haply rusted by salt tears in twain. 

We feel, with something of a sadder heart, 

Yet bracing up our bruised mail the while. 

And fronting the old foe with fresher spirit. 

How great it is to breathe with human breath, 

To be but poor foot-soldiers in the ranks 

Of our old exiled king, Humanity ; 

Encamping after every hard-won field 

Nearer and nearer Heaven^s happy plains. 

Many great souls have gone to rest, and sleep 

Under this armor, free and full of peace : 

If these have left the earth, yet Truth remains. 

Endurance, too, the crowning faculty 

Of noble minds, and Love, invincible 

By any weapons ; and these hem us round 

With silence such that all the groaning clank 



NEW YEAR'S EVE, 1844. 345 

Of this mad engine men have made of earth 

Dulls not some ears for catching purer tones. 

That wander from the dim surrounding vast, 

Or far more clear melodious. prophecies, 

The natural music of the heart of man, 

Which by kind Sorrow's ministry hath learned 

That the true sceptre of all power is love 

And humbleness the palace-gate of truth. 

What man with soul so blind as sees not here 

The first faint tremble of Hope's morning-star. 

Foretelling how the God-forged shafts of dawn, 

Fitted already on their golden string, 

Shall soon leap earthward with exulting flight 

To thrid the dark heart of that evil faith 

Whose trust is in the clumsy arms of Force, 

The ozier hauberk of a ruder age ? 

Freedom ! thou other name for happy Truth, 

Thou warrior-maid, whose steel-clad feet were never 

Out of the stirrup, nor thy lance uncouched. 

Nor thy fierce eye enticed from its watch. 

Thou hast learned now, by hero-blood in vain 

Poured to enrich the soil which tyrants reap ; 

By wasted lives of prophets, and of those 

Who, by the promise in their souls upheld. 

Into the red arms of a fiery death 

Went blithely as the golden-girdled bee 

Sinks in the sleepy poppy's cup of flame 

By the long woes of nations set at war. 

That so the swollen torrent of their wrath 

May find a vent, else sweeping off like straws 

The thousand cobweb threads, grown cable-huge 

By time's long gathered dust, but cobwebs still. 

Which bind the Many that the Few may gain 



346 A MYSTICAL BALLAD. 

Leisure to wither by the drought of ease 
What heavenly germs in their own souls were sown ;- 
By all these searching lessons thou hast learned 
To throw aside thy blood-stained helm and spear 
And with thy bare brow daunt the enemy's front. 
Knowing that God will make the lily stalk, 
In the soft grasp of naked Gentleness, 
Stronger than iron spear to shatter through 
The sevenfold toughness of Wrong's idle shield. 



A MYSTICAL BALLAD. 

I. 

The sunset scarce had dimmed away 
Into the twilight's doubtful gray ; 
One long cloud o'er the horizon lay, 
Neath which, a streak of bluish white. 
Wavered between the day and night ; 
Over the pine trees on the hill 
The trembly evening-star did thrill. 
And the new moon, with slender rim. 
Through the elm arches gleaming dim, 
Filled memory's chalice to the brim. 

II. 

On such an eve the heart doth grow 

Full of surmise, and scarce can know 

If it be now or long ago, 

Or if indeed it doth exist ; — 

A wonderful enchanted mist 

From the new moon doth wander out, 

Wrapping all things in mystic doubt. 



A MYSTICAL BALLAD. 347 

So that this world doth seem untrue, 

And all our fancies to take hue 

From some life ages since gone through. 

III. 

The maiden sat and heard the flow 

Of the west wind so soft and low 

The leaves scarce quivered to and fro ; 

Unbound, her heavy golden hair 

Rippled across her bosom bare, 

Which gleamed with thrilling snowy white 

Far through the magical moonlight : 

The breeze rose with a rustling swell. 

And from afar there came the smell 

Of a long-forgotten lily-bell. 

IV. 

The dim moon rested on the hill, 
But silent, without thought or will. 
Where sat the dreamy maiden still ; 
And now the moon's tip, like a star. 
Drew down below the horizon's bar ; 
To her black noon the night hath grown. 
Yet still the maiden sits alone. 
Pale as a corpse beneath a stream 
And her white bosom still doth gleam 
Through the deep midnight like a dream. 

V. 

Cloudless the morning came and fair. 
And lavishly the sun doth share 
His gold among her golden hair. 
Kindling it all, till slowly so 



348 A MYSTICAL BALLAD. 

A glory round her head doth glow ; 

A withered flower is in her hand, 

That grew in some far distant land. 

And, silently transfigured, 

With wide calm eyes, and undrooped head, 

They found the stranger-maiden dead. 

VI. 

A youth, that morn, 'neath other skies. 
Felt sudden tears burn in his eyes, 
And his heart throng with memories ; 
All things without him seemed to win 
Strange brotherhood with things within, 
And he forever felt that he 
Walked in the midst of mystery, 
And thenceforth, why, he could not tell. 
His heart would curdle at the smell 
Of his once-cherished lily-bell. 

VII. 

Something from him had passed away ; 
Some shifting trembles of clear day, 
Through starry crannies in his clay. 
Grew bright and steadfast, more and more. 
Where all had been dull earth before ; 
And, through these chinks, like him of old. 
His spirit converse high did hold 
With clearer loves and wider powers. 
That brought him dewy fruits and flowers 
From far Elysian groves and bowers. 

VIII. 

Just on the farther bound of sense, 
Unproved by outward evidence, 



A MYSTICAL BALLAD. 349 

But known by a deep influence 

Which through our grosser clay doth shine 

With light unwaning and divine. 

Beyond where highest thought can fly 

Stretcheth the world of Mystery — 

And they not greatly overween 

Who deem that nothing true hath been 

Save the unspeakable Unseen. 

IX. 

One step beyond life's work-day things, 
One more beat of the sours broad wings 
One deeper sorrow sometimes brings 
The spirit into that great Vast 
Where neither future is nor past ; 
None knoweth how he entered there, 
But, waking, finds his spirit where 
He thought an angel could not soar. 
And, what he called false dreams before, 
The very air about his door. 

X. 

These outward seemings are but shows 

Whereby the body sees and knows ; 

Far down beneath, forever flows 

A stream of subtlest sympathies 

That make our spirits strangely wise 

In awe, and fearful bodings dim 

Which, from the sense's outer rim, 

Stretch forth beyond our thought and sight. 

Fine arteries of circling light, 

Pulsed outward from the Infinite, 



350 A YEAR'S LIFE. 

OPEN^IKG POEM TO 

A YEAR'S LIFE. 

Hope first the youthful Poet leads, 
And he is glad to follow her ; 
Kind is she, and to all his needs 
With a free hand doth minister. 

But, when sweet Hope at last hath fled, 
Cometh her sister. Memory ; 
She wreathes Hope's garlands round her head, 
And strives to seem as fair as she. 

Then Hope comes back, and by the hand 
She leads a child most fair to see, 
Who with a joyous face doth stand 
Uniting Hope and Memory. 

So brighter grew the Earth around, 
And bluer grew the sky above ; 
The Poet now his guide hath found. 
And follows in the steps of Love. 



DEDICATION 

TO VOLUME OF POEMS EISTTITLED 

A YEAR'S LIFE. 

The gentle Una I have loved. 

The snowy maiden, pure and mild. 

Since ever by her side I roved. 

Through ventures strange, a wondering child, 

In fantasy a Red Cross Knight, 

Burning for her dear sake to fight. 



THRENODIA. 351 

If there be one who can, like her, 
Make sunshine in life's shady places, 
One in whose holy bosom stir 
As many gentle household graces — 
And such I think there needs must be — 
Will she accept this book from me ? 



THRENODIA. 

Gone, gone from us ! and shall we see 

Those sybil-leaves of destiny, 

Those calm eyes, nevermore ? 

Those deep, dark eyes so warm and bright, 

"Wherein the fortunes of the man 

Lay slumbering in prophetic light. 

In characters a child might scan ? 

So bright, and gone forth utterly ? 

stern word — Nevermore ! 

The stars of those two gentle eyes 
Will shine no more on earth ; 
Quenched are the hopes that had their birth. 
As we watched them slowly rise. 
Stars of a mother's fate ; 
And she would read them o'er and o'er, 
Pondering, as she sate. 
Over their dear astrology, 
Which she had conned and conned before. 
Deeming she needs must read aright 
What was writ so passing bright. 
And yet, alas ! she knew not why. 
Her voice would falter in its song, 



352 THRENODIA. 

And tears would slide from out her eye, 
Silent, as they were doing wrong. 
Her heart was like a wind-flower, bent 
Even to breaking with the balmy dew, 
Turning its heavenly nourishment 
(That filled with tears its eyes of blue. 
Like a sweet suppliant that weeps in prayer, 
Making her innocency show more fair. 
Albeit unwitting of the ornament,) 
Into a load too great for it to bear : 

stern word — Nevermore ! 

The tongue, that scarce had learned to claim 
An entrance to a mother's heart 
By that dear talisman, a mother's name, 
Sleeps all forgetful of its art ! 

1 loved to see the infant soul 
(How mighty in the weakness 
Of its untutored meekness !) 
Peep timidly from out its nest, 
His lips, the while. 

Fluttering with half-fledged words. 

Or hushing to a smile 

That more than words expressed, 

"When his glad mother on him stole 

And snatched him to her breast ! 

0, thoughts were brooding in those eyes. 

That would have soared like strong-winged birds 

Far, fax into the skies. 

Gladdening the earth with song 

And gushing harmonies. 

Had he but tarried with us long ! 

stern word — Nevermore \ 



THRENODIA. 353 

How peacefully they rest, 

Crossfolded there 

Upon his little breast, 

Those small, white hands that ne'er were still before. 

But ever sported with his mother's hair, 

Or the plain cross that on her breast she wore ! 

Her heart no more will beat 

To feel the touch of that soft palm. 

That ever seemed a new surprise 

Sending glad thoughts up to her eyes 

To bless him with their holy calm — 

Sweet thoughts ! they made her eyes as sweet. 

How quiet are the hands 

That wove those pleasant bands ! 

But that they do not rise and sink 

AVith his calm breathing, I should think 

That he were dropped asleep ; 

Alas ! too deep, too deep 

In this his slumber ! 

Time scarce can number 

The years ere he will wake again — 

0, may we see his eyelids open then ! 

stern word — Nevermore ! 

As the airy gossamere. 
Floating in the sunlight clear. 
Where'er it toucheth clinging tightly 
Round glossy leaf or stump unsightly, 
So from his spirit wandered out 
Tendrils spreading all about. 
Knitting all things to its thrall 
With a perfect love of all : 
stern word — Nevermore ! 
23 



354 THRENODIA. 

He did but float a little way 
Adown the stream of time, 
AVith dreamy eyes watching the ripples play, 
Or listening to their fairy chime ; 
His slender sail 
Ne'er felt the gale ; 
He did but float a little way. 
And, putting to the shore 
While yet ^t was early day, 
Went calmly on his way, 
To dwell with us no more ! 
No jarring did he feel, 
No grating on his vessel's keel ; 
A strip of silver sand 
Mingled the waters with the land 
Where he was seen no more : 
stern word — Nevermore ! 

Full short his journey was ; no dust 
Of earth into his sandals clave ; 
The weary weight that old men must. 
He bore not to the grave. 
He seemed a cherub who had lost his way 
And wandered hither, so his stay 
With us was short, and 't was most meet 
That he should be no delver in Earth^'s clod. 
Nor need to pause and cleanse his feet 
To stand before his God ; 
blest word — Evermore ! 



THE SERENADE. 355 

THE SERENADE. 

Gentle, Lady, be thy sleeping, 
Peaceful may thy dreamings be. 
While around thy soul is sweeping, 
Dreamy-winged, our melody ; 
Chant we. Brothers, sad and slow, 
Let our song be soft and low, 
As the voice of other years. 
Let our hearts within us melt, 
To gentleness, as if we felt 
The dropping of our mother's tears. 

Lady ! now our song is bringing 
Back again thy childhood^s hours — 
Hearest thou the humbee singing 
Drowsily among the flowers ? 
Sleepily, sleepily 
In the noontide swayeth he. 
Half-rested on the slender stalks 
That edge those well-known garden walks ; 
Hearest thou the fitful whirring 
Of the humbird's viewless wings — 
Feel'st not round thy heart the stirring 
Of childhood's half-forgotten things ? 

Seest thou the dear old dwelling 
With the woodbine round the door ? 
Brothers, soft ! her breast is swelling 
With the busy thoughts of yore ; 
Lowly sing ye, sing ye mildly. 
Rouse her spirit not so wildly, 
Lest she sleep not any more. 
'T is the pleasant summertide, 



356 TlIE SERENAM; 

Open stands the window wide^ 

Whose voices, Lady, art thou drinking ? 

Who sings that best beloved tune 

In a clear note, rising, sinking. 

Like a thrush's song in June ? 

Whose laugh is that which rings so clear 

And joyous in thine eager ear ? 

Lower, Brothers, yet more low 
Weave the song in mazy twines ; 
She heareth now the west wind blow 
At evening through the clump of pines ; 
! mournful is their tune, 
As of a crazed thing 
Who, to herself alone. 
Is ever murmuring, 

Through the night and through the day, 
For something that hath passed away. 
Often, Lady, hast thou listened. 
Often have thy blue eyes glistened. 
Where the summer evening breeze 
Moaned sadly through those lonely trees. 
Or with the fierce wind from the north 
Wrung their mournful music forth. 
Ever the river floweth 
In an unbroken stream, 
Ever the west wind bloweth. 
Murmuring as he goeth, 
And mingling with her dream ; 
Onward still the river sweepeth 
With a sound of long-agone ; 
Lowly, Brothers, lo ! she weepeth, 
She is now no more alone ] 



SONG. 357 

Long-loved forms and long-loved faces 

Eound about her pillow throng, 

Through her memory's desert places 

Flow the waters of our song. 

Lady ! if thy life be holy 

As when thou wert yet a child. 

Though our song be melancholy, 

It will stir no anguish wild ; 

For the soul that hath lived well. 

For the soul that child-like is, 

There is quiet in the spell 

That brings back early memories. 



SONG. 
I. 



Lift up the curtains of thine eyes 
And let their light outshine ! 

Let me adore the mysteries 
Of those mild orbs of thine, 

Which ever queenly calm do roll. 

Attuned to an ordered soul ! 

II. 

Open thy lips yet once again 
And, while my soul doth hush 

With awe, pour forth that holy strain 
Which seemeth me to gush, 

A fount of music, running o'er 

From thy deep spirit's inmost core ! 



358 "THE DEPARTED. 

The melody that dwells in thee 

Begets in me as well 
A spiritual harmony, 

A mild and blessed spell ; 
Far, far above earth's atmosphere 
I rise, whene'er thy voice I hear. 



THE DEPARTED. 

Not they alone are the departed. 
Who have laid them down to sleep 
In the grave narrow and lonely, 
Not for them only do I vigils keep, 
Not for them only am I heavy-hearted, 
Not for them only ! 

Many, many, there are many 
Who no more are with me here, 
As cherished, as beloved as any 
Whom I have seen upon the bier. 
I weep to think of those old faces, 
To see them in their grief or mirth ; 
I weep— for there are empty places 
Around my heart's once crowded hearth ; 
The cold ground doth not cover them. 
The grass hath not grown over them. 
Yet are they gone from me on earth ; — 
! how more bitter is this weeping. 
Than for those lost ones who are sleeping 
Where sun will shine and flowers blow, 



THE DEPARTED. 359 

Where gentle winds will whisper low, 
And the stars have them in their keeping ! 
Wherefore from me who loved you so, 

! wherefore did ye go ? 

1 have shed full many a tear, 

I have wrestled oft in prayer — 
But ye do not come again ; 
How could anything so dear, 
How could anything so fair, 
Vanish like the summer rain ? 
No, no, it cannot be. 
But ye are still with me ! 

And yet, ! where art thou, 
Childhood, with sunny brow 
And floating hair ? 
Where art thou hiding now ? 
I have sought thee everywhere. 
All among the shrubs and flowers 
Of those garden-walks of ours — 
Thou art not there ! 
When the shadow of Night's wings 
Hath darkened all the Earth, 
I listen for thy gambolings 
Beside the cheerful hearth — 
Thou art not there ! 
I listen to the far-off bell, 
I murmur o'er the little songs 
Which thou didst love so well, 
Pleasant memories come in throngs 
And mine eyes are blurred with tears. 
But no glimpse of thee appears : 



360 "THE DEPARTED. 

Lonely am I in the AVinter, lonely in the Spring, 
Summer and harvest bring no trace of thee — 
Oh ! whither, whither art thou wandering. 
Thou who didst once so cleave to me ? 

And love is gone ; — 
I have seen him come, 
I have seen him, too, depart, 
Leaving desolate his home. 
His bright home in my heart. 
I am alone ! 

Cold, cold is his hearth-stone. 
Wide open stands the door ; 
The frolic and the gentle one 
Shall I see no more, no more ? 
At the fount the bowl is broken, 
I shall drink it not again, 
All my longing prayers are spoken. 
And felt, ah, woe is me, in vain ! 
Oh, childish hopes and childish fancies, 
Whither have ye fled away ? 
I long for you in mournful trances, 
I long for you by night and day ; 
Beautiful thoughts that once were mine. 
Might I but win you back once more, 
Might ye about my being twine 
And cluster as ye did of yore ! 
! do not let me pray in vain — 

How good and happy I should be, 
How free from every shade of pain, 
If ye would come again to me ! 
0, come again ! come, come again ! 



THE DEPARTED. 361 

Hath the sun forgot its brightness, 

Have the stars forgot to shine. 

That they bring not their wonted lightness 

To this weary heart of mine ? 

*T is not the sun that shone on thee, 

Happy childhood, long ago — 

Not the same stars silently 

Looking on the same bright snow — 

Not the same that Love and I 

Together watched in days gone by ! 

No, not the same, alas for me ! 

Would God that those who early went 
To the house dark and low. 
For whom our mourning heads were bent, 
For whom our steps were slow ; 
0, would that these alone had left us. 
That Fate of these alone had reft us, 
Would God indeed that it were so ! 
Many leaves too soon must wither, 
Many flowers too soon must die. 
Many bright ones wandering hither. 
We know not whence, we know not why. 
Like the leaves and like the flowers. 
Vanish, ere the summer hours. 
That brought them to us, have gone by. 

for the hopes and for the feelings, 
Childhood, that I shared with thee — 
The high resolves, the bright revealings 
Of the soul's might, which thou gav'st me, 
Gentle Love, woe worth the day. 
Woe worth the hour when thou wert born, 



862 THE BOBOLINK. 

Woe worth the day thou fled'st away— 
A shade across the wind- waved corn — 
A dewdrop falling from the leaves 
Chance-shaken in a summer's morn ! 
"Woe, woe is me ! my sick heart grieves, 
Companionless and anguish-worn ! 
I know it well, our manly years 
Must be baptized in bitter tears ; 
Full many fountains must run dry 
That youth has dreamed for long hours by. 
Choked by convention's siroc blast 
Or drifting sands of many cares ; 
Slowly they leave us all at last. 
And cease their flowing unawares. 



THE BOBOLINK. 

Ajs'ACREON" of the meadow, 
Drunk with the joy of spring ! 
Beneath the tall pine's voiceful shadow 
I lie and drink thy jargoning ; 
My soul is full with melodies, 
One drop would overflow it. 
And send the tears into mine eyes — 
But what car'st thou to know it ? 
Thy heart is free as mountain air. 
And of thy lays thou hast no care. 
Scattering them gayly everywhere, 
Happy, unconscious poet ! 

Upon a tuft of meadow grass. 
While thy loved-one tends the nest, 



THE BOBOLINK. 363 

Thou swayest as the breezes pass, 
Unburthening thine o'erfull breast 
Of the crowded songs that fill it. 
Just as joy may choose to will it. 
Lord of thy love and libert}. 
The blithest bird of merry May, 
Thou turnest thy bright eyes on me. 
That say as plain as eye can say — x. 
"Here sit we, here in the summer weather, 
I and my modest mate together ; 
Whatever your wise thoughts may be. 
Under that gloomy old pine tree. 
We do not value them a feather/' 

Xow, leaving earth and me benind. 
Thou beatest up against the wind, 
Or, floating slowly down before it. 
Above thy grass-hid nest thou flutterest 
And thy bridal love-song utterest, 
Raining showers of music o'er it, 
Weary never, still thou thrillest. 
Spring-gladsome lays, 
As of moss-rimmed water-brooks 
Murmuring through pebbly nooks 
In quiet summer days. 
My heart with happiness thou fillest, 
I seem again to be a boy 
AVatching thee, gay, blithesome lover. 
O'er the bending grass-tops hover. 
Quivering thy wings for joy. 
There's something in the apple-blossom, 
The greening grass and bobolink's song, 
That wakes again within my bosom 



364 THE BOBOLINK. 

Feelings which have slumbered long. 

As long, long years ago I wandered, 

I seem to wander even yet, 

The hours the idle school-boy squandered. 

The man would die ere he^d forget. 

hours that frosty eld deemed wasted, 
Nodding his gray head toward my books, 

1 dearer prize the lore I tasted 

With you, among the trees and brooks. 

Than all that I have gained since then 

From learned books or study-withered men ! 

Nature, thy soul was one with mine. 

And, as a sister by a younger brother 

Is loved, each flowing to the other. 

Such love for me was thine. 

Or wert thou not more like a loving mother 

With sympathy and loving power to heal. 

Against whose heart my throbbing heart I 'd lay 

And moan my childish sorrows all away. 

Till calm and holiness would o'er me steal ^ 

Was not the golden sunset a dear friend ? 

Found I no kindness in the silent moon. 

And the green trees, whose tops did sway and bend. 

Low singing evermore their pleasant tune ? 

Felt I no heart in dim and solemn woods — 

No loved-one's voice in lonely solitudes ; 

Yes, yes ! unhoodwinked then my spirit's eyes, 

Blind leaders had not taught me to be wise. 

Dear hours ! which now again I over-live, 
Hearing and seeing with the ears and eyes 
Of childhood, ye were bees, that to the hive 
Qf my young heart came laden with rich prize^ 



THE BOBOLINK. 365 

Gathered in fields and woods and sunny dells, to be 

My spirit's food in days more wintery. 

Yea, yet again ye come ! ye come ! 

And, like a child once more at home 

After long sojourning in alien climes, 

I lie upon my mother's breast. 

Feeling the blessedness of rest, 

And dwelling in the light of other times. 

ye whose living is not LifCy 
Whose dying is but death. 
Song, empty toil and petty strife, 
Bounded with loss of breath ! 
Go, look on Nature's countenance, 
Drink in the blessing of her glance ; 
Look on the sunset, hear the wind. 
The cataract, the awful thunder ; 
Go, worship by the sea ; 
Then, and then only, shall ye find, 
With ever-growing wonder, 
Man is not all in all to ye ; 
Go with a meek and humble soul. 
Then shall the scales of self unroll 
From off your eyes — the weary packs 
Drop from your heavy-laden backs ; 
And ye shall see. 

With reverent and hopeful eyes. 
Glowing with new-born energies. 
How great a thing it is to be ! 



366 SONG. 

FORGETFULNESS. 
There 's a haven of sure rest 

From the loud world's bewildering stress 
As a bird dreaming on her nest, 
As dew hid in a rose's breast, 
As Hesper in the glowing West ; 
So the heart sleeps 
In thy calm deeps, 
Serene Forgetfulness ! 

No sorrow in that place may be. 

The noise of life grows less and less : 
As moss far down within the sea, 
As, in white lily caves, a bee. 
As life in a hazy reverie ; 

So the heart's wave 

In thy dim cave. 
Hushes, Forgetfulness ! 

Duty and care fade far away 

What toil may be we cannot guess : 
As a ship anchored in the bay. 
As a cloud at summer-noon astray, 
As water-blooms in a breezeless day ; 
So, 'neath thine eyes. 
The full heart lies, 
And dreams, Forgetfulness ! 



SONG. 
I. 
What reck I of the stars, when I 

May gaze into thine eyes, 
O'er which the brown hair flowingly 
Is parted niaidenwise 



THE POET. 367 

From thy pale forehead, calm and bright, 
Over thy cheeks so rosy white ? 

II. 

What care I for the red moon-rise ? 

Far liefer would I sit 
And watch the joy within thine eyes 

Gush up at sight of it ; 
Thyself my queenly moon shall be, 
Ruling my heart's deep tides for me ! 

III. 

What heed I if the sky be blue ? 

So are thy holy eyes. 
And bright with shadows ever new 

Of changeful sympathies. 
Which in thy soul's unruffled deep 
Rest evermore, but never sleep. 



THE POET. 

He who hath felt Life's mystery 

Press on him like thick night. 
Whose soul hath known no history 

But struggling after light ; — 
He who hath seen dim shapes arise 

In the soundless depths of soul. 
Which gaze on him with meaning eyes 

Full of the mighty whole, 
Yet will no word of healing speak. 

Although he pray night-long, 
'* 0, help me, save me ! I am weak. 

And ye are wondrous strong ! " — 



36b THE POET. 

Who, in the midnight dark and deep. 

Hath felt a voice of might 
Come echoing through the halls of sleep 

From the lone heart of Night, 
And, starting from his restless bed, 

Hath watched and wept to know 
What meant that oracle of dread 

That stirred his being so ; 
He who hath felt how strong and great 

This Godlike soul of man, 
And looked full in the eyes of Fate, 

Since Life and Thought began ; 
The armor of whose moveless trust 

Knoweth no spot of weakness. 
Who hath trod fear into the dust 

Beneath the feet of meekness ; — 
He who hath calmly borne his cross. 

Knowing himself the king 
Of time, nor counted it a loss 

To learn by suffering ; — 
And who hath worshipped woman still 

With a pure soul and lowly, 
Nor ever hath in deed or will 

Profaned her temple holy — 
He is the Poet, him unto 

The gift of song is given, 
Whose life is lofty, strong, and true, 

Who never fell from Heaven ; 
He is the Poet, from his lips 

To live forevermore, 
Majestical as full-sailed ships. 

The words of Wisdom pour. 



FLOWERS. 369 

FLOWERS. 

" Hail be thou, holie hearbe, 

Growing on the ground, 
All in the mount Calvary 

First wert thou found ; 
Thou art good for manie a sore, 

Thou healest manie a wound, 
In the name of sweete Jesus 

I take thee from the ground.'* 

— Ancient Charm-verse, 

I. 

vVhen, from a pleasant ramble, home 

Fresh-stored with quiet thoughts, I come, 

I pluck some wayside flower . . 

And press it in the choicest nook 

Of a much-loved and oft-read book ; 

And, when upon its leaves I look 

In a less happy hour. 

Dear memory bears me far away 

Unto her fairy bower. 

And on her breast my head I lay, 

While, in a motherly, sweet strain, 

She sings me gently back again 

To by-gone feelings, until they 

Seem children born of yesterday. 

II. 

Yes, many a story of past hours 
I read in these dear withered flowers, 
And once again I seem to be 
Lying beneath the old oak tree, 

24 



37© FLOWERS. 

And looking up into the sky, 
Through thick leaves rifted fitfully. 
Lulled by the rustling of the vine, 
Or the faint low of far-off kine ; 
And once again I seem 
To watch the whirling bubbles flee, 
Through shade and gleam alternately, 
Down the vine-bowered stream ; 
Or 'neath the odorous linden trees. 
When summer twilight lingers long, 
To hear the flowing of the breeze 
And unseen insects' slumberous song. 
That mingle into one and seem 
Like dim murmurs of a dream ; 
Fair faces, too, I seem to see, 
Smiling from pleasant eyes at me. 
And voices sweet I hear. 
That, like remembered melody. 
Flow through my spirit's ear. 

A poem every flower is, 
And every leaf a line. 
And with delicious memories 
They fill this heart of mine : 
No living blossoms are so clear 
As these dead relics treasured here ; 
One tells of love, of friendship one, 
Love's quiet after-sunset time. 
When the all-dazzling light is gone. 
And, with the soul's low vesper-chime. 
O'er half its heaven doth out-flow 



FLOWERS. 371 

A holy calm and steady glow. 
Some are gay feast-soDg, some are dirges, 
In some a joy with sorrow merges ; 
One sings the shadowed woods, and one 

the roar 
Of ocean's everlasting surges. 
Tumbling upon the beach's hard-beat floor, 
Or sliding backward from the shore 
To meet the landward waves and slowly 

plunge once more. 
flowers of grace, I bless ye all 
By the dear faces ye recall ! 

IV. 

Upon the banks of Life's deep streams 
Full many a flower grows 
Which with a wondrous fragrance teems, 
And in the silent water gleams, 
And trembles as the water floweth. 
Many a one the wave upteareth, 
Washing ever the roots away. 
And far upon its bosom beareth, 
To bloom no more in Youth's glad May ; 
As farther on the river runs. 
Flowing more deep and strong. 
Only a few pale, scattered ones 
Are seen the dreary banks along ; 
And where those flowers do not grow, 
The river floweth dark and chill, 
Its voice is sad, and with its flow 
Mingles ever a sense of ill ; 
Then, Poet, thou who gather dost 
Of Life's best flowers the brightest, 



372 FLOWERS. 

0, take good heed they be not lost 
While with the angry flood thou fightest ! 

V. 

In the cool grottos of the soul. 
Whence flows thought's crystal river, 
Whence songs of joy forever roll 
To Him who is the Giver — 
There store thou them, where fresh and 

green 
Their leaves and blossoms may be seen, 
A spring of joy that faileth never ; 
There store thou them, and they shall be 
A blessing and a peace to thee, 
And in their youth and purity 
Thou shalt be young forever ! 
Then, with their fragrance rich and rare. 
Thy living shall be rife. 
Strength shall be thine thy cross to bear. 
And they shall be a chaplet fair, 
Breathing a pure and holy air, 
To crown thy holy life. 

VI. 

Poet ! above all men blest. 
Take heed that thus thou store them ; 
Love, Hope, and Faith shall ever rest. 
Sweet birds (upon how sweet a nest !) 
Watchfully brooding o'er them. 
And from those flowers of Paradise 
Scatter thou many a blessed seed, 
WHerefrom an offspring may arise 



FLOWERS. 373 

To cheer the hearts and light the eyes 

Of after-voyagers in their need. 

They shall not fall on stony ground, 

But, yielding all their hundred-fold. 

Shall shed a peacefulness around. 

Whose strengthening joy may not be told, 

So shall thy name be blest of all. 

And thy remembrance never die ; 

For of that seed shall surely fall 

In the fair garden of Eternity. 

Exult then in the nobleness 

Of this thy work so holy, 

Yet be not thou one jot the less 

Humble and meek and lowly. 

But let thine exultation be 

The reverence of a bended knee ; 

And by thy life a poem write. 

Built strongly day by day — 

And on the rock of Truth and Right 

Its deep foundations lay. 

VII. 

It is thy DUTY ! Guard it well ! 
Eor unto thee hath much been given. 
And thou canst make this life a Hell, 
Or JacobVladder up to Heaven. 
Let not thy baptism in Life's wave 
Make thee like him whom Homer sings — 
A sleeper in a living grave. 
Callous and hard to outward things ; 
But open all thy soul and sense 
To every blessed influence 
That from the heart of Nature springs ; 



374: THE LOVER. 

Then shall thy Lif e-fiowers be to thee. 
When thy best years are told, 
As much as these have been to me — 
Yea, more, a thousand-fold ! 



THE LOVER. 



I. 



Go from the world from East to West, 
Search every land beneath the sky. 
You cannot find a man so blest, 
A king so powerful as I, 
Though you should seek eternally. 

II. 

For I a gentle lover be, 
Sitting at my loved-one's side ; 
She giveth her whole soul to me 
Without a wish or thought of pride. 
And she shall be my cherished bride. 

III. 

No show of gaudiness hath she, 
She doth not flash with jewels rare ; 
In beautiful simplicity 
She weareth leafy garlands fair. 
Or modest flowers in her hair. 

IV. 

Sometimes she dons a robe of green. 
Sometimes a robe of snowy white. 



TO E. W. G. 375 

But, in whatever garb she 's seen, 
It seems most beautiful and right. 
And is the loveliest to my sight. 

V. 

Not I her lover am alone. 
Yet unto all she doth suffice. 
None jealous is, and every one 
Reads love and truth within her eyes. 
And deemeth her his own dear prize. 

VI. 

And so thou art. Eternal Nature ! 
Yes, bride of Heaven, so thou art ; 
Thou wholly loves t every creature. 
Giving to each no stinted part. 
But filling every peaceful heart. 



TO E. W. G. 

'^Dear Child ! dear happy Girl ! if thou appear 
Heedless — untouched with awe or serious thought. 
Thy nature is not therefore less divine : 
Thou liest in Abraham's bosom all the year ; 
And worship'st at the Templets inner shrine, 
God being with thee when we know it not." 

— Wordsworth, 

As through a strip of sunny light 

A white dove flashes swiftly on, 

So suddenly before my sight 

Thou gleamed'st a moment and wert gone ; 

And yet I long shall bear in mind 

The pleasant thoughts thou leftist behind. 



376 TO E. W. G. 

Thou mad^st me happy with thine eyes. 
And happy with thine open smile, 
And, as I write, sweet memories 
Come thronging round me all the while ; 
Thou mad'st me happy with thine eyes — 
And gentle feelings long forgot 
Looked up and oped their eyes. 
Like violets when they see a spot 
Of summer in the skies. 

Around thy playful lips did glitter 
Heat-lightnings of a girlish scorn ; 
Harmless they were, for nothing bitter 
In thy dear heart was ever born — 
That merry heart that could not lie 
Within its warm nest quietly. 
But ever from each full, dark eye 
Was looking kindly night and morn. 

There was an archness in thine eyes. 
Born of the gentlest mockeries. 
And thy light laughter rang as clear 
As water-drops I loved to hear 
In days of boyhood, as they fell 
Tinkling far down the dim, still well ; 
And with its sound come back once more 
The feelings of my early years. 
And half aloud I murmured o'er — 
^' Sure I have heard that sound before. 
It is so pleasant in mine ears." 

Whenever thou didst look on me 
I thought of merry birds, 
And something of spring's melody 



TO E. W. G. 377 

Came to me in thy words ; 
Thy thoughts did dance and bound along 
Like happy children in their play. 
Whose hearts run over into song 
For gladness of the summer's day ; 
And mine grew dizzy with the sight. 
Still feeling lighter and more light. 
Till, joining hands, they whirled away. 
As blithe and merrily as they. 

I bound a larch-twig round with flowers. 
Which thou didst twine among thy hair. 
And gladsome were the few, short hours 
When I was with thee there ; 
So now that thou art far away. 
Safe-nestled in thy warmer clime. 
In memory of a happier day 
I twine this simple wreath of rhyme. 

Dost mind how she, whom thou dost love 
More than in light words may be said. 
A coronal of amaranth wove 
About thy duly-sobered head. 
Which kept itself a moment still 
That she might have her gentle will ? 
Thy childlike grace and purity 
keep forevermore. 
And as thou art, still strive to be, 
That on the farther shore 
Of time's dark waters ye may meet. 
And she may twine around thy brow 
A wreath of those bright flowers that grow 
Where blessed angels set their feet ! 



378 ISABEL. 

ISABEL. 

As THE leaf upon the tree. 

Fluttering, gleaming constantly, 

Such a lightsome thing was she, 

My gray and gentle Isabel I 

Her heart was fed with love-springs sweet. 

And in her face you 'd see it beat 

To hear the sound of welcome feet — 

And were not mine so, Isabel ! 

She knew it not, but she was fair. 
And like a moonbeam was her hair. 
That falls where flowing ripples are 
In summer evenings, Isabel ! 
Her heart and tongue were scarce apart. 
Unwittingly her lips would part. 
And love came gushing from her heart. 
The woman^s heart of Isabel. 

So pure her flesh-garb, and like dew. 
That in her features glimmered through 
Each working of her spirit true. 
In wondrous beauty, Isabel ! 
A sunbeam struggling through thick leaves, 
A reaper^s song 'mid yellow sheaves. 
Less gladsome were ; — my spirit grieves 
To think of thee, mild Isabel ! 

I know not when I loved thee first ; 
Not loving, I had been accurst. 
Yet, having loved, my heart will burst. 
Longing for thee, dear Isabel ! 



MUSIC. 379 

With silent tears mv cheeks are wet, 
I would be calm, I would forget. 
But thy blue eyes gaze on me yet. 
When stars have risen, Isabel. 

The winds mourn for thee, Isabel, 
The flowers expect thee in the dell. 
Thy gentle spirit loved them well. 
And I for thy sake, Isabel ! 
The sunsets seem less lovely now 
Than when, leaf checkered, on thy brow 
They fell as lovingly as thou 
Lingered^st till moon-rise, Isabel ! 

At dead of night I seem to see 
Thy fair, pale features constantly 
Upturned in silent prayer for me. 
O'er moveless clasped hands, Isabel ! 
I call thee, thou dost not reply ; 
The stars gleam coldly on thine eye. 
As like a dream thou flittest by. 
And leav'st me weeping, Isabel ! 



MUSIC. 



T. 



I SEEM to lie with drooping eyes, 

Dreaming sweet dreams. 
Half longings and half memories. 

In woods where streams 
With trembling shades and whirling gleams. 

Many and bright, 
In song and light. 



380 MUSIC. 

Are ever, ever flowing ; 
While the wind, if we list to the rustling grass, 
Which numbers his footsteps as they pass, 

Seems scarcely to be blowing ; 
And the far-heard voice of Spring, 
From sunny slopes comes wandering. 
Calling the violets from the sleep, 
That bound them under the snow-drifts deep. 
To open their childlike, asking eyes 
On the new summer's paradise. 
And mingled with the gurgling waters — 

As the dreamy witchery 
Of Achelous' silver-voiced daughters 

Rose and fell with the heaving sea. 

Whose great heart swelled with ecstasy — 
The song of many a floating bird. 

Winding through the rifted trees. 
Is dreamily half-heard — 

A sister stream of melodies 
Rippled by* the flutterings 
Of rapture-quivered wings. 



II. 



And now beside a cataract 
I lie, and through my soul. 
From over me and under. 
The never-ceasing thunder 
Arousingly doth roll ; 
Through the darkness all compact. 
Through the trackless sea of gloom. 
Sad and deep T hear it boom ; 
At intervals the cloud is cracked 



MUSIC. 381 

And a livid flash doth hiss 

Downward from its floating home, 
Lighting up the precipice 

And the never-resting foam 
With a dim and ghastly glare. 
Which, for a heart-beat, in the air, 

Shows the sweeping shrouds 

Of the midnight clouds 
And their wildly-scattered hair. 

III. 

Now listening to a woman's tone, 
In a wood I sit alone — 
Alone because our souls are one ; — 
All around my heart it flows. 
Lulling me in deep repose ; 
I fear to speak, I fear to move. 
Lest I should break the spell I love — 
Low and gentle, calm and clear. 
Into my inmost soul it goes. 

As if my brother dear, 

Who is no longer here. 

Had bended from the sky 

And murmured in my ear 
A strain of that high harmony. 

Which they may sing alone 

Who worship round the throne. 

IV. 

Now in a fairy boat. 

On the bright waves of song, 
Pull merrily I float. 

Merrily float along ; 



382 MUSIC. 

My helm is veered, I care not how, 

My white sail bellies over me. 
And bright as gold the ripples be 
That plash beneath the bow ; 

Before, behind. 

They feel the wind. 

And they are dancing joyonsly — 
While, faintly heard, along the far-off shore 
The surf goes plunging with a lingering roar ; 

Or anchored in a shadowy cove. 
Entranced with harmonies. 
Slowly I sink and rise 

As the slow waves of music move. 



Y. 

Now softly dashing. 

Babbling, plashing. 

Mazy, dreamy. 

Faint and streamy. 

Ripples into ripples melt. 

Not so strongly heard as felt ; 

Now rapid and quick. 

While the heart beats thick. 

The music^'s silver wavelets crowd, 

Distinct and clear, but never loud ; 

And now all solemnly and slow. 

In mild, deep tones they warble low. 

Like the glad song of angels, when 

They sang good will and peace to men ; 

Now faintly heard and far, 

As if the spirit's ears 

Had caught the anthem of a star 



MUSIC. 383 

Chanting with his brother-spheres 
In the midnight dark and deep. 
When the body is asleep 
And wondrous shadows pour in streams 
From the twofold gate of dreams ; 
Now onward roll the billows, swelling 
With a tempest-sound of might. 
As of voices doom foretelling 

To the silent ear of Night ; 
And now a mingled ecstasy 

Of all sweet sounds it is ; — 

! who may tell the agony 
Of rapture such as this ? 

VI. 

I have drunk of the drink of immortals, 

1 have drunk of the life-giving wine. 
And now I may pass the bright portals 

That open into a realm divine ! 
I have drunk it through mine ears 

In the ecstasy of song, 
When mine eyes would fill with tears 

That its life were not more long ; 
I have drunk it through mine eyes 

In beauty's every shape. 
And now around my soul it lies. 

No juice of earthly grape ! 
Wings ! wings are given to me, 

I can flutter, I can rise. 
Like a new life gushing through me 

Sweep the heavenly harmonies I 



384 SONG. 

SONG. 

! I MUST look on that sweet face once more before I 

die ; 
God grant that it may lighten up with joy when I draw 

nigh; 
God grant that she may look on me as kindly as she 

seems 
In the long night, the restless night, i' the sunny land 

of dreams ! 

1 hoped, I thought, she loved me once, and yet, I know 

not why. 
There is a coldness in her speech, and a coldness in her 

eye. 
Something that in another's look would not seem cold 

to me. 
And yet like ice I feel it chill the heart of memory. 

She does not come to greet me so frankly as she did. 
And in her utmost openness I feel there 's something 

hid; 
She almost seems to shun me, as if she thought that I 
Might win her gentle heart again to feelings long 

gone by. 

I sought the first spring-buds for her, the fairest and 

the best. 
And she wore them for their loveliness upon her spot^ 

less breast, 
The blood-root and the violet, the frail anemone. 
She wore them, and alas ! I deemed it was for love of 

me ! 



SONG. 385 

As flowers in a darksome place stretch forward to the 

light. 
So to the memory of her I turn hy day and night ; 
As flowers in a darksome place grow thin and pale and 

wan, 
So is it with my darkened heart, now that her light is 

gone. 

The thousand little things that love doth treasure up 

for aye. 
And brood upon with moistened eyes when she that 's 

loved 's away, 
The word, the look, the smile, the blush, the ribbon 

that she wore. 
Each day they grow more dear to me, and pain me 

more and more. 

My face I cover with my hands, and bitterly I weep. 
That the quick-gathering sands of life should choke a 

love so deep, 
And that the stream, so pure and bright, must turn it 

from its track. 
Or to the heart-springs, whence it rose, roll its full 

waters back ! 

As calm as doth the lily float close by the lakelet's 

brim. 
So calm and spotless, down time's stream, her peaceful 

days did swim. 
And I had longed, and dreamed, and prayed, that 

closely by her side, 
Down to a haven still and sure, my happy life might 

glide. 
25 



386 lANTHE. 

But now, alas ! those golden days of youth and hope 

are o'er, 
And I must dream those dreams of joy, those guiltless 

dreams no more ; 
Yet there is something in my heart that whispers 

ceaselessly, 
*' Would God that I might see that face once more 



before I die ! 



>y 



lANTHE. 

There is a light within her eyes. 

Like gleams of wandering fire-flies ; 

From light to shade it leaps and moves 

Whenever in her soul arise 

The holy shapes of things she loves ; 

Fitful it shines and changes ever. 

Like star-lit ripples on a river. 

Or summer sunshine on the eaves 

Of silver-trembling poplar leaves, 

Where the lingering dew-drops quiver. 

I may not tell the blessedness 

Her mild eyes send to mine, 

The sunset-tinted haziness 

Of their mysterious shine. 

The dim and holy mournfulness 

Of their mellow light divine ; 

The shadow of the lashes lie 

Over them so lovingly, 

That they seem to melt away 

In a doubtful twilight-gray. 



lANTHE. 387 

While I watch the stars arise 

In the evening of her eyes, 

1 love it, yet I almost dread 

To think what it foresliadoweth ; 

And, when I mnse how I have read 

That such strange light betokened death — 

Instead of fire-fly gleams, I see 

"Wild corpse- lights gliding waver ingly. 

11.^ 

With wayward thoughts her eyes are bright. 
Like shiftings of the northern-light. 
Hither, thither, swiftly glance they. 
In a mazy twining dance they, 
Like ripply lights the sunshine weaves. 
Thrown backward from a shaken nook. 
Below some tumbling water-brook. 
On the overarching platan-leaves, 
All through her glowing face they flit. 
And rest in their deep dwelling-place. 
Those fathomless blue eyes of hers, 
Till, from her burning soul re-lit. 
While her upheaving bosom stirs. 
They stream again across her face 
And with such hope and glory fill it, 
Death could not have the heart to chill it. 
Yet when their wild light fades again, 
I feel a sudden sense of pain. 
As if, while yet her eyes were gleaming. 
And like a shower of sun-lit rain 
Bright fancies from her face were streaming. 
Her trembling soul might flit away 
As swift and suddenly as they. 



388 lANTHE. 

III. 

A wild, inspired earnestness 
Her inmost being fills. 

And eager self-forgetf ulness, 
That speaks not what it wills, 

But what unto her soul is given, 

A living oracle from Heaven, 

Which scarcely in her breast is born 

When on her trembling lips it thrills. 

And, like a burst of golden skies 

Through storm-clouds on a sudden torn. 

Like a glory of the morn. 

Beams marvellously from her eyes. 

And then, like a Spring-swollen river. 
Roll the deep waves of her full-hearted thought 

Crested with sun-lit spray. 

Her wild lips curve and quiver. 
And my rapt soul, on the strong tide npcaught, 

Unwittingly is borne away. 

Lulled by a dreamful music ever. 

Far — through the solemn twilight-gray 

Of hoary woods — through valleys green 

Which the trailing vine embowers, 
And where the purple-clustered grapes are seen 
Deep-glowing through rich clumps of waving flowers- 

Now over foaming rapids swept 

And with maddening rapture shook — 
Now gliding where the water-plants have slept 

For ages in a moss-rimmed nook — 

Enwoven by a wild-eyed band 
Of earth-forgetting dreams, 

I float to a delicious land 



lANTHE. 389 

By a sunset heaven spanned, 
And musical with streams ; — 

Around, the calm, majestic forms 
And god-like eyes of early Greece I see. 

Or listen, till my spirit warms, 

To songs of courtly chivalry. 
Or weep, unmindful if my tears be seen. 
For the meek, suffering love of poor Undine. 



IV. 



Her thoughts are never memories, 
But ever changeful, ever new, 
Fresh and beautiful as dew 
That in a dell at noontide lies. 
Or, at the close of summer day. 
The pleasant breath of new-mown hay : 
Swiftly they come and pass 
As golden birds across the sun, 
As light-gleams on tall meadow-grass 
Which the wind just breathes upon. 
And when she speaks, her eyes I see 

Down-gushing through their silken lattices. 
Like stars that quiver tremblingly 
Through leafy branches of the trees. 
And her pale cheeks do flush and glow 
With speaking flashes bright and rare 

As crimson North-lights on new-fallen snow. 
From out the veiling of her hair — 

Her careless hair that scatters down 
On either side her eyes, 

A waterfall leaf-tinged with brown 
And lit with the sunrise. 



390 lANTHE. 

V. 

When first I saw her, not of earth, 
But heavenly both in grief and mirth, 
I thought her ; she did seem 
As fair and full of mystery, 
As bodiless, as forms we see 
In the rememberings of a dream ; 
A moon-lit mist, a strange, dim light. 
Circled her spirit from my sight ; — 
Each day more beautiful she grew. 

More earthly every day. 
Yet that mysterious, moony hue 

Faded not all away ; 
She has a sister's sympathy 
With all the wanderers of the sky, 
But most I 've seen her bosom stir 

When moonlight round her fell. 
For the mild moon it loveth her, 

She loveth it as well. 
And of their love perchance this grace 
Was born into her wondrous face. 
I cannot tell how it may be. 
For both, methinks, can scarce be true. 
Still, as she earthly grew to me. 
She grew more heavenly too ; 

She seems one born in Heaven 
With earthly feelings. 
For, while unto her soul are given 
More pure revealings 

Of holiest love and truth, 
Yet is the mildness of her eyes 
Made up of quickest sympathies. 

Of kindliness and ruth j 



lANTHE. 391 

So, though some shade of awe doth stir 
Our souls for one so far above us. 
We feel secure that she will love us, 
And cannot keep from loving her. 
She is a poem, which to me 
In speech and look is written bright, 
And to her life's rich harmony 
Doth ever sing itself aright ; 
Dear, glorious creature ! 
With eyes so dewy bright, 
And tenderest feeling 
Itself revealing 
In every look and feature. 
Welcome as a homestead light 
To one long-wandering in a clouded night ; 
0, lovelier for her woman's weakness. 

Which yet is strongly mailed 

In armor of courageous meekness 

And faith that never failed ! 

VI. 

Early and late, at her soul's gate. 
Sits Chastity in warderwise, 
'No thoughts unchallenged, small or great. 
Go thence into her eyes ; 
Nor may a low, unworthy thought 
Beyond that virgin warder win. 
Nor one, whose password is not '' oughts" 
May go without or enter in. 
I call her, seeing those pure eyes. 
The Eve of a new Paradise, 
Which she by gentle word and deed. 
And look no less, doth still create 



!92 LOVE'S ALTAR. 

About her, for her great thoughts breed 
A calm that lifts us from our fallen state, 

'And makes us while with her both good and great- 
Nor is their memory wanting in our need : 
With stronger loving, every hour, 
Turneth my heart to this frail flower, 
Which, thoughtless of the world, hath grown 
To beauty and meek gentleness. 
Here in a fair world of its own — 
By woman's instinct trained alone — 
A lily fair which God did bless, 
And which from Nature's heart did draw 

Love, wisdom, peace, and Heaven's perfect law. 



LOVE'S ALTAR. 

I. 

I BUILT an altar in my soul, 

I build ed it to one alone ; 

And ever silently I stole. 

In happy days of long-agone. 

To make rich offerings to that o:n"E. 

II. 

'T was garlanded with purest thought. 
And crowned with fancy's flowers bright. 
With choicest gems 't was all inwrought 
Of truth and feeling ; in my sight 
It seemed a spot of cloudless light. 

III. 

Yet when I made my offering there. 
Like Cain's, the incense would not rise ; 



IViY LOVE. 393 

Back on ray heart down-sank the prayer. 

And altar-stone and sacrifice 

Grew hateful in my tear-dimmed eyes. 

IV. 

O'er-grown with age's mosses green, 
The little altar firmly stands ; 
It is not, as it once hath been, 
A selfish shrine ; — these time-taught hands 
Bring incense now from many lands. 

Y. 

Knowledge doth only widen love ; 
The stream, that lone and narrow rose. 
Doth, deepening ever, onward move. 
And with an even current flows 
Calmer and calmer to the close. 

VI. 

The love, that in those early days 
Girt round my spirit like a wall, 
Hath faded like a morning haze. 
And flames, unpent by self's mean thrall. 
Rise clearly to the perfect all. 



MY LOVE. 

I. 

Not as all other women are 
Is she that to my soul is dear ; 
Her glorious fancies come from far 
Beneath the silver evening-star, 
And yet her heart is ever near. 



394 MY LOVE. 

II. 

Great feelings hath she of her own 
Which lesser souls may never know ; 
God giveth them to her alone. 
And sweet they are as any tone 
Wherewith the wind may choose to blow. 

III. 
Yet in herself she dwelleth not. 
Although no home were half so fair, 
No simplest duty is forgot. 
Life hath no dim and lowly spot 
That doth not in her sunshine share. 

IV. 

She doeth little kindnesses. 
Which most leave undone, or despise. 
For naught that sets one heart at ease. 
And giveth happiness or peace, 
Is low-esteemed in her eyes. 

V. 

She hath no scorn of common things, 
And, though she seem of other birth, 
Kound us her heart entwines and clings. 
And patiently she folds her wings 
To tread the humble paths of earth. 

Yi. 

Blessing she is : God made her so, 
And deeds of week-day holiness 
Fall from her noiseless as the snow. 
Nor hath she ever chanced to know 
That aught were easier than to bless. 



MY LOVE. 395 

VII. 

She is most fair, and thereunto 
Her life doth rightly harmonize ; 
Feeling or thought that was not true 
Ne'er made less beautiful the blue 
Unclouded heaven of her eyes. 

VIII. 

On Nature she doth muse and brood 
With such a still and love-clear eye — 
She is so gentle and so good — 
The very flowers in the wood 
Do bless her with their sympathy. 

IX. 

She is a woman : one in whom 
The spring-time of her childish years 
Hath never lost its fresh perfume. 
Though knowing well that life hath room 
For many blights and many tears. 

X. 

And youth in her a home will find, 
Where he may dwell eternally ; 
Her soul is not of that weak kind 
Which better love the life behind 
Than that which is, or is to be. 

XI. 

I love her with a love as still 
As a broad river's peaceful might. 
Which, by high tower and lowly mill. 
Goes wandering at its own will. 
And yet doth ever flow aright. 



396 WITH A. PRESSED FLOWER. 

XII. 

And, on its fall, deep breast serene, 
Like quiet isles my duties lie ; 
It flows around them and between, 
And makes them fresh and fair and green. 
Sweet homes wherein to live and die. 



WITH A PRESSED FLOWER. 

This little flower from afar 
Hath come from other lands to thine ; 
For, once, its white and drooping star 
Could see its shadow in the Rhine. 

Perchance some fair-haired German maid 
Hath plucked one from the self-same stalk. 
And numbered over, half afraid, 
Its petals in her evening walk. 

'^ He loves me, loves me not," she cries ; 
'^ He loves me more than earth or Heaven," 
And then glad tears have filled her eyes 
To find the number was uneven. 

So, Love, my heart doth wander forth 
To farthest lands beyond the sea. 
And search the fairest spots of earth 
To find sweet flowers of thought for thee. 

A type this tiny blossom is 
Of what my heart doth every day. 
Seeking for pleasant fantasies 
To brood upon when thou 'rt away. 



IMPARTIALITY. 397 

And thou must count its petals well, 
Because it is a gift from me ; 
And the last one of all shall tell 
Something F ve often told to thee. 

But here at home, where we were born, 
Thou wilt find flowers just as true, 
Down bending every summer morn 
With freshness of New England dew. 

For Nature, ever right in love. 
Hath given them the same sweet tongue. 
Whether with German skies above. 
Or here our granite rocks among. 



IMPARTIALITY. 



I. 



I CANNOT say a scene is fair 
Because it is beloved of thee. 
But I shall love to linger there. 
For sake of thy dear memory ; 
I would not be so coldly just 
As to love only what I must. 

II. 

I cannot say a thought is good 
Because thou foundest joy in it ; 
Each soul must choose its proper food 
Which Nature hath decreed most fit ; 
But I shall ever deem it so 
Because it made thy heart o'erflow. 



398 BELLEROPHON. 

III. 
I love thee for that thon art fair ; 
And thau +^^hr spirit joys in aught 
Createth a n^w beauty there, 
With thine own dearest image fraught ; 
And love, for others' sake that springs. 
Gives half their charm to lovely things. 



BELLEROPHON. 

DEDICATED TO MY FRIEND, JOHN F. HEATH. 

I. 

I FEEL the bandages unroll 

That bound my inward seeing ; 
Freed are the bright wings of my soul. 

Types of my god-like being ; 
High thoughts are swelling in my heart 

And rushing through my brain ; 
May I never more lose part 

In my souFs realm again I 
All things fair, where'er they be. 
In earth or air, in sky or sea, 
I have loved them all, and taken 
All within my throbbing breast ; 
No more my spirit can be shaken 
From its calm and kingly rest ! 
Love hath shed its light around me, 
Love hath pierced the shades that bound me ; 
Mine eyes are opened, I can see 
The universe's mystery. 

The mighty heart and core 

Of After and Before 
I seC;, and I am weak no more ! 



BELLEROPHON. 399 

II. 

Upward ! upward evermore. 
To Heaven's open gate I soar ! ■" 
Little thoughts are far behina me, 
Which, when custom weaves together, 
All the nobler man can tether — 
Cobwebs now no more can bind me ! 
Now fold thy wings a little while. 

My tranced soul, and lie 
At rest on this Calypso-isle 

That floats in mellow sky, 
A thousand isles with gentle motion 
Eock upon the sunset ocean ; ^ 
A thousand isles of thousand hues. 
How bright ! how beautiful ! how rare ! 
Into my spirit they infuse 
A purer, a diviner air ; 
The earth is growing dimmer. 
And now the last faint glimmer 
Hath faded from the hill ; 
But in my higher atmosphere 
The sun-light streameth red and clear. 

Fringing the islets still ; — 
Love lifts us to the sun-light. 
Though the whole world would be dark ; 
Love, wide Love, is the one light. 
All else is but a fading spark ; 
Love is the nectar which doth fill 
Our soul's cup even to overflowing. 
And, warming heart, and thought, and will. 
Doth lie within us mildly glowing. 
From its own centre raying out 
Beauty and Truth on all without. 



400 BELLEROPHON 

III. 

Each on his golden throne. 
Full royally, alone, 
I see the stars above me. 
With sceptre and with diadem ; 
Mildly they look down and love me. 
For I have ever yet loved them ; 
I see their ever-sleepless eyes 
Watching the growth of destinies ; 

Calm, sedate. 

The eyes of Fate, 
They wink not, nor do roll, 
But search the depths of soul — 
And in those mighty depths they see 
The germs of all Futurity, 
Waiting but the fitting time 
To burst and ripen into prime. 
As in the womb of mother Earth 
The seeds of plants and forests lie 
Age upon age and never die — 
So in the souls of all men wait, 
Undyingly the seeds of Fate ; 
Chance breaks the clod and forth they spring, 
Filling blind men with wondering. 
Eternal stars ! with holy awe. 
As if a present God I saw, 
I look into those mighty eyes 
And see great destinies arise. 
As in those of mortal men 
Feelings glow and fade again ! 
All things below, all things above. 
Are open to the eyes of Love. 



BELLEROPHON. ^ 40I 



IV. 



26 



Of Knowledge Love is master-key. 
Knowledge of Beauty ; passing dear 
Is each to each, and mutually 
Each one doth make the other clear ; 
Beauty is Love, and what we love 
Straightway is beautiful. 
So is the circle round and full. 
And so dear Love doth live and move 

And have his being. 
Finding his proper food 

By sure inseeing. 
In all things pure and good. 
Which he at will doth cull. 
Like a joyous butterfly 
Hiving in the sunny bowers 
Of the souFs fairest flowers. 
Or, between the earth and sky, 
Wandering at liberty 
For happy, happy hours ! 

V. 

The thoughts of Love are Poesy, 
As this fair earth and all we see 
Are the thoughts of Deity — 
And Love is ours by our birthright ! 
He hath cleared mine inward sight ; 
Glorious shapes with glorious eyes 
Round about my spirit glance. 
Shedding a mild and golden light 
On the shadowy face of Night ; 
To unearthly melodies. 
Hand in hand, they weave their dancej 



4:02 SOMETHING NATURAL. 

While a deep, ambrosial lustre 

From their rounded limbs doth shine. 

Through many a rich and golden cluster 
Of streaming hair divine. 

In our gross and earthly hours 

We cannot see the Love-given powers 

Which ever round the soul await 
To do its sovereign will, 

When, in its moments calm and still. 

It re-assumes its royal state, 

Nor longer sits with eyes downcast, 

A beggar, dreaming of the past, 

At its ovi^n palace-gate. 

VI. 

I too am a Maker and a Poet ; 
Through my whole soul I feel it and know it ; 
My veins are fired with ecstasy ! 

All-mother Earth 

Did ne'er give birth 
To one who shall be matched with me ; 
The lustre of my coronal 
Shall cast a dimness over all. — 
Alas ! alas ! what have I spoken ? 
My strong, my eagle wings are broken. 
And back again to earth I fall ! 



SOMETHING NATUKAL. 

I. 

Whei^ first I saw thy soul-deep eyes. 
My heart yearned to thee instantly. 
Strange longing in my soul did rise ; 



THE SIRENS. 403 

I cannot tell the reason why, 
But I must love thee till I die. 

II. 

The sight of thee hath well-nigh grown 
As needful to me as the light ; 
I am unrestful when alone. 
And my heart doth not beat aright 
Except it dwell within thy sight. 

III. 

And yet — and yet — selfish love ! 
I am not happy even with thee ; 
I see thee in thy brightness move. 
And cannot well contented be, 
Save thou should^st shine alone for me. 

IV. 

We should love beauty even as flowers 
For all, 't is said, they bud and blow. 
They are the world's as well as ours — 
But thou — alas ! God made thee grow 
So fair, I cannot love thee so ! 



THE SIRENS. 

The sea is lonely, the sea Is dreary. 
The sea is restless and uneasy ; 

Thou seekest quiet, thou art weary. 
Wandering thou knowest not whither ; — 
Our little isle is green and breezy. 
Come and rest thee ! come hither. 



404 THE SIRENS. 

Come to this peaceful home of ours, 

Where evermore 
The low west- wind creeps panting up the shore 
To be at rest among the flowers ; 
Full of rest, the green moss lifts. 

As the dark waves of the sea 
Draw in and out of rocky rifts, 

Calling solemnly to thee. 
With voices deep and hollow — 
To the shore 
Follow ! follow ! 
To be at rest for evermore ! 
For evermore ! 

Look how the gray, old Ocean 
From the depths of his heart rejoices, 
Heaving with a gentle motion, 
When he hears our restful voices ; 
List how he sings in an undertone. 
Chiming with our melody ; 
And all sweet sounds of earth and air 
Melt into one low voice alone. 
That murmurs over the weary sea — 
And seems to sing from everywhere — 
'' Here mayest thou harbor peacefully. 
Here mayest thou rest from the aching oar ; 
Turn thy curved prow ashore, 
And in our green isle rest for evermore ! 

For evermore ! 
And echo half wakes in the wooded hill. 

And, to her heart so calm and deep. 

Murmurs over in her sleep, 
Doubtfully pausing and murmuring still, 



THE SIRENS. 405 

*^ Evermore ! " 

Thus, on Life's weary sea, 
Heareth the marinere 
Voices sweet, from far and near. 
Ever singing low and clear, 
Ever singing longingly. 

Is it not better here to be, 
Than to be toiling late and soon ? 
In the dreary night to see 
Nothing but the blood-red moon 
Go up and down into the sea ; 
Or, in the loneliness of day. 

To see the still seals only. 
Solemnly lift their faces gray. 

Making it yet more lonely ? 
Is it not better, than to hear 
Only the sliding of the wave 
Beneath the plank, and feel so near 
A cold and lonely grave, 
A restless grave, where thou shalt lie 
Even in death unquietly ? 
Look down beneath thy wave-worn bark. 

Lean over the side and see 
The leaden eye of the side-long shark 
Upturned patiently, 

Ever waiting there for thee : 
Look down and see those shapeless forms. 

Which ever keep their dreamless sleep 

Far down within the gloomy deep. 
And only stir themselves in storms. 
Rising like islands from beneath. 
And snorting through the angry spray, 



406 'THE SIRENS. 

As the frail vessel perisheth 

In the whirls of their unwieldy play ; 

Look down ! Look down ! 
Upon the seaweed, slimy and dark. 
That waves its arms so lank and brown, 

Beckoning for thee ! 
Look down beneath thy wave-worn bark 
Into the cold depth of the sea ! 
Look down ! Look down ! 
Thus, on Life's lonely sea, 
Heareth the marinere 
Voices sad, from far and near. 
Ever singing full of fear. 
Ever singing drearfully, 

Here all is pleasant as a dream ; 
The wind scarce shaketh down the dew. 
The green grass floweth like a stream 

Into the ocean's blue : 
Listen ! listen ! 
Here is a gush of many streams. 

A song of many birds, 
And every wish and longing seems 
Lulled to a numbered flow of words — 

Listen ! listen ! 
Here ever hum the golden bees 
Underneath full- blossomed trees. 
At once with glowing fruit and flower crowned ; — 
The sand is so smooth, the yellow sand. 
That thy keel will not grate, as it touches the land ; 
All around, with a slumberous sound. 
The singing waves slide up the strand. 
And there, where the smooth wet pebbles be, 



A FEELING- 407 

The waters gurgle longingly. 
As if they fain would seek the shore, 
To be at rest from the ceaseless roar. 
To be at rest for evermore — 
For evermore. 

Thus, on Life's gloomy sea, 
Heareth the marinere 
Voices sweet, far and near. 
Ever singing in his ear, 
Here is rest and peace for thee ! " 
Nantasket, July, 1840. 



A FEELING. 

The flowers and the grass to me 

Are eloquent reproachfully ; 

For would they wave so pleasantly 

Or look so fresh and fair, 

If a man, cunning, hollow, mean. 

Or one is anywise unclean. 

Were looking on them there ? 

No ; he hath grown so foolish- wise 
He cannot see with childhood's eyes ; 
He hath forgot that purity 
And lowliness which are the key 
Of Nature's mysteries ; 
No ; he hath wandered off so long 
From his own place of birth. 
That he hath lost his mother-tongue. 
And, like one come from far-off lands, 
Forgetting and forgot, he stands 
Beside his mother's hearth. 



408 THE BEGGAR. 

THE BEGGAR. 

A Beggar through the world am I, 
From place to place I wander by ; — 
Fill up my pilgrim's scrip for me. 
For Christ's sweet sake and charity ! 

A little of thy steadfastness, 
Eounded with leafy gracefulness, 
Old oak, give me — 

That the world's blasts may round me blow, 
And I yield gently to and fro, 
While my stout-hearted trunk below 
And firm-set roots unmoved be. 

Some of thy stern, unyielding might. 
Enduring still through day and night 
Rude tempest-shock and withering blight — 
That I may keep at bay 
The changeful April sky of chance 
And the strong tide of circumstance — 
Give me, old granite gray. 

Some of thy mournf ulness serene, 
Some of thy never-dying green. 
Put in this scrip of mine — 
That grief may fall like snowflakes light. 
And deck me in a robe of white. 
Ready to be an angel bright — 
sweetly-mournful pine. 

A little of thy merriment. 
Of thy sparkling, light content. 
Give me my cheerful brook — 



SERENADE. 409 

That I may still be full of glee 
And gladsomeness, wherever I be, 
Though fickle fate hath prisoned me 
In some neglected nook. 

Ye have been very kind and good 
To me, since Pve been in the wood ; 
Ye have gone nigh to fill my heart ; 
But good-by, kind friends, every one, 
I 've far to go ere set of sun ; 
Of all good things I would have part. 
The day was high ere I could start, 
And so my journey 's scarce begun. 

Heaven help me ! how could I forget 
To beg of thee, dear violet ! 
Some of thy modesty, 
That flowers here as well, unseen. 
As if before the world thou^dst been, 
give, to strengthen me. 



SERENADE. 

From the close-shut windows gleams no spark, 
The night is chilly, the night is dark. 
The poplars shiver, the pine-trees moan. 
My hair by the autumn breeze is blown. 
Under thy window I sing alone. 
Alone, alone, ah woe ! alone ! 

The darkness is pressing coldly around. 
The windows shake with a lonely sound. 
The stars are hid and the night is drear. 
The heart of silence throbs in thine ear. 



410 IRENE. 

In thy chamber thou sittest alone. 
Alone, alone, ah woe ! alone ! 

The world is happy, the world is wide. 
Kind hearts are beating on every side ; 
Ah, why should we lie so curled 
Alone in the shell of this great world ? 
Why should we any more be alone ? 
Alone, alone, ah woe ! alone ! 

! 't is a bitter and dreary word. 
The saddest by man's ear ever heard ; 
We each are young, we each have a heart. 
Why stand we ever coldly apart ? 
Must we forever, then, be alone ? 
Alone, alone, ah woe ! alone ! 



IRENE. 



Hers is a spirit deep and crystal-clear ; 
Calmly beneath her earnest face it lies. 
Free without boldness, meek without a fear. 
Quicker to look than speak its sympathies ; 
Far down into her large and patient eyes 
I gaze, deep-drinking of the infinite, 
As, in the mid-watch of a clear, still night, 
I look into the fathomless blue skies. 

So circled lives she with Love's holy light. 
That from the shade of self she walketh free ; 
The garden of her soul still keepeth she 
An Eden where the snake did never enter ; 
She hath a natural, wise sincerity. 



IRENE. 411 

A simple truthfulness, and these have lent her 
A dignity as moveless as the centre ; 
So that no influence of earth can stir 
Her steadfast courage, or can take away 
The holy peacefulness, which, night and day. 
Unto her queenly soul doth minister. 

Most gentle is she ; her large charity 
(An all unwitting, childlike gift in her) 
Not freer is to give than meek to bear ; 
And, though herself not unacquaint with care. 
Hath in her heart wide room for all that be — 
Her heart that hath no secrets of its own. 
But open is as eglantine full-blown. 
Cloudless forever is her brow serene. 
Speaking calm hope and trust within her, whence 
Welleth a noiseless spring of patience 
That keepeth all her life so fresh, so green 
And full of holiness, that every look. 
The greatness of her woman's soul revealing. 
Unto me bringeth blessing, and a feeling 
As when I read in God's own holy book. 

A graciousness in giving that doth make 
The small 'st gift greatest, and a sense most meek 
Of worthiness, that doth not fear to take 
From others, but which always fears to speak 
Its thanks in utterance, for the giver's sake ; — 
The deep religion of a thankful heart, 
Which rests instinctively with Heaven's law 
With a full peace, that never can depart 
From its own steadfastness ; — a holy awe 
For holy things, not those which men call holy, 



4:12 IRENE. 

But such are as revealed to the eyes 

Of a true woman's soul bent down and lowly 

Before the face of daily mysteries ; — 

A love that blossoms soon, but ripens slowly 

To the full goldenness of fruitful prime. 

Enduring with a firmness that defies 

All shallow tricks of circumstance and time, 

By a sure insight knowing where to cling, 

And where it clingeth never withering — 

These are Irene's dowry — which no fate 

Can shake from their serene, deep-builded state. 

In-seeing sympathy is hers, which chasteneth 
No less than loveth, scorning to be bound 
"With fear of blame, and yet which ever hasteneth 
To pour the balm of kind looks on the wound. 
If they be wounds which such sweet teaching makes. 
Giving itself a pang for others' sakes ; 
No want of faith, that chills with side-long eye. 
Hath she ; no jealousy, no Levite pride 
That passeth by upon the other side ; 
For in her soul there never dwelt a lie. 
Eight from the hand of God her spirit came 
Unstained, and she hath ne'er forgotten whence 
It came, nor wandered far from thence. 
But laboreth to keep her still the same. 
Near to her place of birth, that she may not 
Soil her white raiment with an earthly spot. 

Yet sets she not her soul so steadily 
Above, that she forgets her ties to earth. 
But her whole thought would almost seem to be 
How to make glad one lowly human hearth ; 



THE LOST CHILD. 413 

For with a gentle courage she doth strive 
In thought and word and feeling so to live 
As to make earth next Heaven ; and her heart 
Herein doth show its most exceeding worth. 
That, bearing in our frailty her just part, 
She hath not shrunk from evils of this life. 
But hath gone calmly forth into the strife. 
And all its sins and sorrows hath withstood 
With lofty strength of patient womanhood : 
For this I love her great soul more than all, 
That, being bound, like us, with earthly thrall. 
She walks so bright and Heaven-wise therein — 
Too wise, too meek, too womanly to sin. 

Exceeding pleasant to mine eyes is she ; 
Like a lone star through riven storm-clouds seen 
By sailors, tempest-tost upon the sea. 
Telling of rest and peaceful heavens nigh. 
Unto my soul her star-like soul hath been. 
Her sight as full of hope and calm to me ; — 
For she unto herself hath builded high 
A home serene, wherein to lay her head, 
Earth^s noblest thing — a Woman perfected. 



THE LOST CHILD. 

I. 

I WANDERED down the sunny glade 
And ever mused, my love, of thee ; 

My thoughts, like little children, played, 
As gayly and as guilelessly. 



414: THE CHURCH. 

II. 

If any chanced to go astray, 

Moaning in fear of coming harms, 

Hope brought the wanderer back alway. 
Safe nestled in her snowy arms. 

III. 

From that soft nest the happy one 
Looked up at me and calmly smiled ; 

Its hair shone golden in the sun. 
And made it seem a heavenly child. 

IV. 

Dear Hope's blue eyes smiled mildly down. 
And blest it with a love so deep, 

That, like a nursling of her own. 
It clasped her neck and fell asleep. 



THE CHURCH. 

I. 

I LOVE the rites of England's chnrch ; 

I love to hear and see 
The priest and people reading slow 

The solemn Litany ; 
I love to hear the glorious swell 

Of chanted psalm and prayer. 
And the deep organ's bursting heart. 

Throb through the shivering air. 

II. 
Chants, that a thousand years have heard, 

I love to hear again. 
For visions of the olden time 

Are wakened by the strain ; 



THE CHURCH. 415 

With gorgeous hues the window-glass 

Seems suddenly to glow, 
And rich and red the streams of light 

Down through the chancel flow. 

III. 

And then I murmur, '^ Surely God 

Delighteth here to dwell ; 
This is the temple of his Son 

Whom he doth love so well ; " 
But, when I hear the creed which saith. 

This church alone is His, 
I feel within my soul that He 

Hath purer shrines than this. 

IV. 

For his is not the builded church. 

Nor organ-shaken dome ; 
In every thing that lovely is 

He loves and hath his home ; 
And most in soul that loveth well 

All things which he hath made. 
Knowing no creed but simple faith 

That may not be gainsaid. 

V. 

His church is universal Love, 

And whoso dwells therein 
Shall need no customed sacrifice 

To vi^ash away his sin ; 
And music in its aisles shall swell. 

Of lives upright and true. 
Sweet as dreamed sounds of angel-harps 

Down-(]^uivering through the blue. 



41 :V THE UNLOVELY. 

VI. 

They shall not ask a litany, 

The souls that worship there, 
But every look shall be a hymn. 

And every word a prayer ; 
Their service shall be written bright 

In calm and holy eyes. 
And every day from fragrant hearts 

Fit incense shall arise. 



THE UNLOVELY. 

The pretty things that others wear 
Look strange and out of place on me, 
I never seem dressed tastefully. 

Because I am not fair ; 
And, when I would most pleasing seem. 
And deck myself with joyful care, 
I find it is an idle dream. 

Because I am not fair. 

If I put roses in my hair. 
They bloom as if in mockery ; 
Nature denies her sympathy. 

Because 1 am not fair ; 
Alas ! I have a warm, true heart. 
But when I show it people stare ; 
I must forever dwell apart. 

Because I am not fair. 

I am least happy being where 
The hearts of others are most light. 
And strive to keep me out of sight. 

Because I am not fair j 



THE UNLOVELY. 417 

The glad ones often give a glance, 
As I am sitting lonely there, 
Tliat asks me why I do not dance — 
Because I am not fair. 

And if to smile on them I dare. 
For that my heart with love runs o'er. 
They say : ^^ What is she laughing for ? " 

Because I am not fair ; 
Love scorned or misinterpreted — 
It is the hardest thing to bear ; 
I often wish that I were dead. 

Because 1 am not fair. 

In joy or grief I must not share, 
For neither smiles nor tears on me 
Will ever look becomingly. 

Because I am not fair ; 
Whole days I sit alone and cry, 
And in my grave I wish I were — 
Yet none will weep me if I die, 

Because I am not fair. 

My grave will be so lone and bare, 
I fear to think of those dark hours. 
For none will plant it o'er with flowers, 

Because I am not fair ; 

They will not in the summer come 

And speak kind words above me there ; 

To me the grave will be no home, 

Because I am not fair, 
27 



418 LOVE-SONG. 



LOVE-SONG. 

Nearer to thy mother-heart. 
Simple Nature, press me, 
Let me know thee as thou art. 
Fill my soul and bless me ! 
I have loved thee long and well, 
I have loved thee heartily ; 
Shall I never with thee dwell. 
Never be at one with thee ? 

Inward, inward to thy heart, 
Kindly Nature, take me. 
Lovely even as thou art. 
Full of loving make me ! 
Thou knowest naught of dead-cold forms, 
Knowest naught of littleness, 
Lifeful Truth thy being warms. 
Majesty and earnestness. 

Homeward, homeward to thy heart. 
Dearest Nature, call me ; 
Let no halfness, no mean part. 
Any longer thrall me ! 
I will be thy lover true, 
I will be a faithful soul, 
Then circle me, then look me through. 
Fill me with the mighty Whole. 



SONG. 419 

SONG. 

All things are sad : — 
I go and ask of Memory, 
That she tell sweet tales to me 

To make me glad ; 
And she takes me by the hand, 

Leadeth to old places, 

Showeth the old faces 
In her hazy mirage-land ; 
0, her voice is sweet and low. 
And her eyes are fresh to mine 
As the dew 
Gleaming through 
The half-unfolded Eglantine, 
Long ago, long ago ! 
But I feel that I am only 
Yet more sad, and yet more lonely ! 

Then I turn to blue-eyed Hope, 
And beg of her that she will ope 
Her golden gates for me ; 
She is fair and full of grace. 
But she hath the form and face 
Of her mother Memory ; 
Clear as air her glad voice ringeth, 
Joyous are the songs she singeth. 
Yet I hear them mournfully ; — 
They are songs her mother taught her. 
Crooning to her infant daughter. 
As she lay upon her knee. 
Many little ones she bore me. 
Woe is me ! in by-^one hours. 



420 SONG. 

Who danced along and sang before me. 
Scattering my way with flowers ; 

One by one 

They are gone, 
And their silent graves are seen. 
Shining fresh with mosses green. 
Where the rising sunbeams slope 
O'er the dewy land of Hope. 

But, when sweet Memory faileth, 
And Hope looks strange and cold ; 
When youth no more availeth, 
And Grief grows over bold ; — 
When softest winds are dreary. 
And summer sunlight weary, 
And sweetest things uncheery 

We know not why : — 
When the crown of our desires 
Weighs upon the brow and tires. 

And we would die, 
Die for, ah ! we know not what, 
Something we seem to have forgot. 
Something we had, and now have not ; — 
When the present is a weight 
And the future seems our foe, 
And with shrinking eyes we wait, 
As one who dreads a sudden blow 
In the dark, he knows not whence ; — 
When Love at last his bright eye closes, 
And the bloom upon his face, 
That lends him such a living grace. 
Is a shadow from the roses 
Wherewith we have decked his bier. 



} 



A LOVE-DREAM. 421 

Because he once was passing dear ;^ 
"When we feel a leaden sense 
Of nothingness and impotence, 
Till we grow mad — 
Then the body saith, 
" There's but one true faith ; 
All things are sad ! " 



A LOVE-DREAM. 

Pleasant thoughts come wandering. 
When thou art far, from thee to me ; 
On their silver wings they bring 
A very peaceful ecstasy, 
A feeling of eternal spring ; 
So that Winter half forgets 
Everything but that thou art. 
And, in his bewildered heart, 
Dreameth of the violets. 
Or those bluer flowers that ope. 
Flowers of steadfast love and hope. 
Watered by the living wells. 
Of memories dear, and dearer prophecies^ 
When young spring forever dwells 
In the sunshine of thine eyes. 

I have most holy dreams of thee. 

All night I have such dreams ; 
And, when I awake, reality 

No whit the darker seems ; 
Through the twin gates of Hope and Memory 
They pour in crystal streams 
From out an angel's calmed eyes. 



422 A LOVE-DREAM. 

Who, from twilight till sunrise, 
Far away in the upper deep, 
Poised upon his shining wings, 
Over us his watch doth keep, 
And, as he watcheth, ever sings. 

Through the still night I hear him sing, 

Down-looking on onr sleep ; 
I hear his clear, clear harp-strings ring, 
And, as the golden notes take wing, 
Gently dow-nv^ard hovering. 

For very joy I weep ; 
He singeth songs of holy Love, 
That quiver through the depths afar. 
Where the blessed spirits are, 
And lingeringly from above 
Shower till the morning star 
His silver shield hath buckled on 
And sentinels the dawn alone, 
Quivering his gleamy spear 
Through the dusky atmosphere. 

Almost, my love, I fear the morn. 

When that blessed voice shall cease. 

Lest it should leave me quite forlorn, 

Stript of my snowy robe of peace ; 

And yet the bright reality 

Is fairer than all dreams can be, 

For, through my spirit, all day long. 

Ring echoes of that angel-song 

In melodious thoughts of thee ; 

And well I know it cannot die 

Till eternal morn shall break. 



FOURTH OF JULY ODE. 423 

For, throngli life's slumber, thou and I 
Will keep it for each other's sake, 
And it shall not be silent when we wake. 



FOURTH OF JULY ODE. 
I. 

Our fathers fought for Liberty, 
They struggled long and well. 
History of their deeds can tell — 

But did they leave us free ? 

II. 

Are we free from vanity. 

Free from pride, and free from self. 
Free from love of power and pelf. 

From everything that ^s beggarly ? 

III. 

Are we free from stubborn will. 
From low hate and malice small. 
From opinion's tyrant thrall ? 

Are none of us our own slaves still ? 

IV. 

Are we free to speak our thought. 
To be happy, and be poor. 
Free to enter Heaven's door. 

To live and labor as we ought ? 

V. 

Are we then made free at last 
From the fear of what men say, 
Free to reverence To-day, 

Free from the slavery of the Past ? 



424 SPHINX. 

VI. 



Our fathers fought for liberty, 
They struggled long and well. 
History of their deeds can tell- 
But ourselves must set us free. 



SPHINX. 



I. 



Why mourn we for the golden prime 
When our young souls tvere kingly, strong, and true ? 

The soul is greater than all time. 
It changes not, but yet is ever new. 



II. 



But that the soul is noble, we 
Could never know what nobleness had been ; 

Be what ye dream ! and earth shall see 
A greater greatness than she e^er hath seen. 



III. 



The flower pines not to be fair. 
It never askeLh to be sweet and dear. 

But gives itself to sun and air, 
And so is fresh and full from year to year. 



IV. 



Nothing in Nature weeps its lot. 
Nothing, save man, abides in memory. 

Forgetful that the Past is what 
Ourselves may choose the coming time to be. 



I 



SPHINX. 425 

V. 

All things are circular ; the Past 
Was given us to make the Future great ; 

And the void Future shall at last 
Be the strong rudder of an after fate. 

VI. 

We sit beside the Sphinx of Life, 
We gaze into its void, unanswering eyes. 

And spend ourselves in idle strife 
To read the riddle of their mysteries. 

YII. 

Arise ! be earnest and be strong ! 
The Sphinx's eyes shall suddenly grow clear, 
And speak as phiin to thee ere long, 
As the dear maiden's who holds thee most dear. 

VIII. 

The meaning of all things in us — 
Yea, in the lives we give our souls — doth lie ; 

Make, then, their meaning glorious 
By such a life as need not fear to die ! 

IX. 

There is no heart-beat in the day. 
Which bears a record of the smallest deed. 

But holds within its faith alway 
That which in doubt we vainly strive to read. 

X. 

One seed contains another seed, 
And that a third, and so for evermore ; 

And promise of as great a deed 
Lies folded in the deed that went before. 



426 ''GOE, LITTLE BOOKE." 

XI. 

So ask not fitting space or time. 
Yet could not dream of things which could not be ; 
Each day shall make the next sublime, 
And Time be swallowed in Eternity. 

XII. 

God bless the Present ! it is all ; 
It has been Future, and it shall be Past ; 

Awake and live ! thy strength recall. 
And in one trinity unite them fast. 

XIII. 

Action and Life — lo ! here the key 
Of all on earth that seemeth dark and wrong ; 

Win this — and, with it, freely ye 
May enter that bright realm for which ye long. 

XIV. 

Then all these bitter questionings 
Shall with a full and blessed answer meet ; 

Past worlds, whereof the Poet sings, 
Shall be the earth beneath his snow-white fleet. 



'^ GOE, LITTLE BOOKE ! '' 

Go, LITTLE book ! the world is wide, 
There's room and verge enough for thee ; 
For thou hast learned that only pride 
Lacketh fit opportunity, 
"Which comes unbid to modesty. 



**GOE, LITTLE BOOKE." 427 

Go ! win thy way with gentleness : 
I send thee forth, my first-born child. 
Quite, quite alone, to face the stress 
Of fickle skies and pathways wild. 
Where few can keep them undefiled. 

Thou earnest from a poet^s heart, 
A warm, still home, and full of rest ; 
Far from the pleasant eyes thou art 
Of those who know and love thee best. 
And by whose hearthstones thou wert blest. 

Go ! knock thou softly at the door 
Where any gentle spirits bin. 
Tell them thy tender feet are sore. 
Wandering so far from all thy kin, 
And ask if thou may enter in. 

Beg thou a cup-full from the spring 
Of Charity, in Christ's dear name ; 
Few will deny so small a thing, 
Nor ask unkindly if thou came 
Of one whose life might do thee shame. 

We all are prone to go astray. 
Our hopes are bright, our lives are dim ; 
But thou art pure, and if they say, 
** We know thy father, and our whim 
He pleases not," — plead thou for him. 

For many are by whom all truth. 
That speaks not in their mother-tongue. 
Is stoned to death with hands unruth. 
Or hath its patient spirit wrung 
Cold words and colder looks among. 



428 "GOE, LITTLE BOOKE." 

Yet fear uot ! for skies are fair 
To all whose souls are fair within ; 
Thou wilt find shelter everywhere 
"With those to whom a different skin 
Is not a damning proof of sin. 

But, if all others are unkind, 
There's one heart whither thou canst fly 
For shelter from the biting wind ; 
And, in that home of purity, 
It were no bitter thing to die. 



SONNETS. 



I. 

DISAPPOINTMENT. 

I PRAY thee call not tliis society ; 

1 asked for bread, thou givest me a stone ; 

I am an hungered, and I find not one 

To give me meat, to joy or grieve with me ; 

I find not here what I went out to see — 

Souls of true men, of women who can move 

The deeper, better part of us to love. 

Souls that can hold with mine communion free. 

Alas ! must then these hopes, these longings high. 

This yearning of the soul for brotherhood. 

And all that makes us pure, and wise, and good, 

Come broken-hearted, home again to die ? 

No, Hope is left, and prays with bended head, 

'' Give us this day, God, our daily bread \" 

II. 

Great human nature, whither art thou fled ? 

Are these things creeping forth and back agen, 

These hollow formalists and echoes, men ? 

Art thou. entombed with the mighty dead ? 

In God's name, no ! not yet hath all been said. 

Or done, or longed for, that is truly great ; 

^ 429 



430 SONNETS. 

These pitiful dried crusts will never sate 
Natures for which pure Truth is daily bread ; 
We were not meant to plod along the earth. 
Strange to ourselves and to our fellows strange ; 
We were not meant to struggle from our birth. 
To skulk and creep^ and in mean pathways range ; 
Act ! with stern truth, large faith, and loving will I 
Up and be doing ! God is with us still. 

III. 

TO A FRIEKD. 

Oi^E strip of bark may feed the broken tree. 
Giving to some few limbs a sickly green ; 
And one light shower on the hills, I ween. 
May keep the spring from drying utterly. 
Thus seemeth it with these our hearts to be ; 
Hope is the strip of bark, the shower of rain. 
And so they are not wholly crushed with pain. 
But live and linger on, for sadder sight to see ; 
Much do they err, who tell us that the heart 
May not be broken ; what, then, can we call 
A broken heart, if this may not be so. 
This death in life, when, shrouded in its pall. 
Shunning and shunned, it dwelleth all apart. 
Its power, its love, its sympathy laid low ? 

IV. 

So may it be, but let it not be so, 

0, let it not be so with thee, my friend ; 

Be of good courage, bear up to the end. 

And on thine after way rejoicing go ! 

We all must suffer, if we aught Avould know ; 

Life is a teacher stern, and wisdom's crown 



SONNNTS. 431 

Is oft a crown of thorns, whence, trickling down, 
Blood, mixed with tears, blinding her eyes doth flow ; 
But Time, a gentle nurse, shall wipe away 
This bloody sweat, and thou shalt find on earth. 
That woman is not all in all to Love, 
But, living by a new and second birth. 
Thy soul shall see all things below, above. 
Grow bright and brighter to the perfect day. 

V. 

CHILD of Nature ! most meek and free. 
Most gentle spirit of true nobleness ! 
Thou doest not a worthy deed the less 
Because the world may not its greatness see ; 
What were a thousand triumphings to thee. 
Who, in thyself, art as a perfect sphere 
Wrapt in a bright and natural atmosphere 
Of mighty-souledness and majesty ? 
Thy soul is not too high for lowly things. 
Feels not its strength seeing its brother weak, 
Not for itself unto itself is dear. 
But for that it may guide the wanderings 
Of fellow-men, and to their spirits speak 
The lofty faith of heart that knows no fear. 

VI. 

'' For this true nobleness I seek in vain. 
In woman and in man I find it not, 
I almost weary of my earthly lot, 
My life-springs are dried up with burning pain/'— 
Thou find'st it not ? I pray thee look again. 
Look i7iivard through the depths of thine own soul ; 
How is it with thee ? Art thou sound and whole ? 
Doth narrow search show thee no earthly stain ? 



432 SONNETS. 

Be noble ! and the nobleness that lies 
In other men, sleeping but never dead, 
"Will rise in majesty to meet thine own ; 
Then wilt thou see it gleam in many eyes, 
Then will pure light around thy path be shed. 
And thou wilt nevermore be sad and lone. 

VII. 
TO 



Deem it no Sodom-fruit of vanity, 

Or fickle fantasy of unripe youth 

Which ever takes the fairest shows for truth. 

That I should wish my verse beloved of thee ; 

^T is love's deep thirst which may not quenched be 

There is a gulf of longing and unrest, 

A wild love-craving not to be represt, 

Whereto, in all our hearts, as to the sea, 

The streams of feeling do for ever flow. 

Therefore it is that thy well-meted praise 

Falleth so shower-like and fresh on me, 

Filling those springs which else had sunk full low. 

Lost in the dreary desert-sands of woe, 

Or parched by passion's fierce and withering blaze. 

VIII. 

Might I but be beloved, and, most fair 

And perfect-ordered soul, beloved of thee. 

How should I feel a cloud of earthly care. 

If thy blue eyes were ever clear to me ? 

O woman's Jove ! flower most bright and rare ! 

That blossom'st brightest in extremest need. 

Woe, woe is me ! that thy so precious seed 

Is ever sown by Fancy's changeful air. 



SONNETS. 433 

And grows sometimes in poor and barren hearts. 
Who can be little even in the light 
Of thy meek holiness — while souls more great 
Are left to wander in a starless night, 
Praying unheard — and yet the hardest parts 
Befit those best who best can cope with Fate. 

IX. 

Why should we ever weary of this life ? 
Our souls should widen ever, not contract. 
Grow stronger, and not harder, in the strife, 
Filling each moment with a noble act ; 
If we live thus, of vigor all compact, 
Doing our duty to our fellow-men, 
And striving rather to exalt our race 
Than our poor selves, with earnest hand or pen 
We shall erect our names a dwelling-place 
Which not all ages shall cast down agen ; 
Offspring of Time shall then be born each hour. 
Which, as of old, earth lovingly shall guard, 
To live forever in youth's perfect flower. 
And guide her future children Heavenward. 

X. 

GREEK MOUNTAIN'S. 

Ye mountains, that far off lift up your heads. 

Seen dimly through their canopies of blue. 

The shade of my unrestful spirit sheds 

Distance-created beauty over you ; 

I am not well content with this far view ; 

How may I know what foot of loved-one treads 

Your rocks moss-grown and sun-dried torrent beds ? 

We should love all things better, if we knew 
28 



^34 SONNETS. 

What claims the meanest have upon our hearts : 
Perchance even now some eye, that would be bright 
To meet my own, looks on your mist-robed forms ; 
Perchance your grandeur a deep joy imparts 
To souls that have encircled mine with light — 
brother-heart, with thee my spirit warms ! 

XI. 

My friend, adown Life's valley, hand in hand, 

With grateful change of grave and merry speech 

Or song, our hearts unlocking each to each. 

We '11 journey onward to the silent land ; 

And when stern Death shall loose that loving band. 

Taking in his cold hand a hand of ours. 

The one shall strew the other's grave with flowers, 

Nor shall his heart a moment be unmanned. 

My friend and brother ! if thou goest first. 

Wilt thou no more re-visit me below ? 

Yea, when my heart seems happy, causelessly 

And swells, not dreaming why, as it would burst 

With joy unspeakable — my soul shall know 

That thou, unseen, art bending over me. 

XII. 

Verse cannot say how beautiful thou art. 
How glorious the calmness of thine eyes. 
Full of unconquerable energies. 
Telling that thou hast acted well thy part. 
No doubt or fear thy steady faith can start. 
No thought of evil dare come nigh to thee. 
Who hast the courage meek of purity. 
The self-stayed greatness of a loving heart. 
Strong with serene, enduring fortitude ; 
Where'er tjiou art, that seems thy fitting plaet. 



SONNETS. 48g 

For not of forms, but Nature, art thou child ; 
And lowest things put on a noble grace 
When touched by ye, patient, Ruth-like, mild 
And spotless hands of earnest womanhood. 

XIII. 

The soul would fain its loving kindness tell, 
But custom hangs like lead upon the tongue ; 
The heart is brimful, hollow crowds among. 
When it finds one whose life and thought are well ; 
Up to the eyes its gushing love doth swell, 
The angel cometh and the waters move. 
Yet it is fearful still to say " I love,*^ 
And words come grating as a jangled bell. 

might we only speak but what we feel, 

Might the tongue pay but what the heart doth owe, 

Not Heaven's great thunder, when, deep peal on peal. 

It shakes the earth, could rouse our spirits so, 

Or to the soul such majesty reveal, 

As two short words half -spoken faint and low ! 

XIV. 

1 SAW a gate : a harsh voice spake and said, 
*' This is the gate of Life ; " above was writ, 
*' Leave hope behind, all ye who enter it ;'' 
Then shrank my heart within itself for dread ; 
But, softer than the summer rain is shed, 
Words dropt upon my soul, and they did say, 

*' Fear nothing, Faith shall save thee, watch and 

pray ! " 
So, without fear I lifted up my head, 
And lo ! that writing was not, one fair word 
Was carven in its stead, and it was ^' Love." 



436 SONNETS. 

Then rained once more those sweet tones from above 
With healing on their wings : I humbly heard, 
^' I am the Life, ask and it shall be given ! 
I am the way, by me ye enter Heaven ! " 

XV. 

I WOULD not have this perfect love of ours 

Grow from a single root, a single stem. 

Bearing no goodly fruit, but only flowers 

That idly hide Lifers iron diadem : 

It should grow alway like that Eastern tree 

Whose limbs take root and spread forth constantly ; 

That love for one, from which there doth not spring 

Wide love for all, is but a worthless thing. 

Not in another world, as poets prate. 

Dwell we apart, above the tide of things. 

High floating o'er earth's clouds on faery wings ; 

But onr pure love doth ever elevate 

Into a holy bond of brotherhood 

All earthly things, making them pure and good. 

XVI. 

To the dark, narrow house where loved ones go. 
Whence no steps outward turn, whose silent door 
None but the sexton knocks at any more, 
Are they not sometimes with us yet below ? 
The longings of the soul would tell us so ; 
Although, so pure and flne their being's essence. 
Our bodily eyes are witless of their presence. 
Yet not within the tomb their spirits glow, 
Like wizard lamps pent up, but whensoever 
With great thoughts worthy of their high behests 
Our souls are filled, those bright ones with us be. 
As, in the patriarch's tent, his angel guests ; — 



SONNETS. 437 

let us live so worthily, that never 
We may be far from that blest company. 

XVII. 

1 FAIN" vv^oiild give to thee the loveliest things, 
For lovely things belong to thee of right. 
And thou hast been as peaceful to my sight, 

As the still thoughts that summer twilight brings ; 

Beneath the shadow of thine angel wings 

let me live ! let me rest in thee. 

Growing to thee more and more utterly. 

Upbearing and upborne, till outward things 

Are only as they share in thee a part ! 

Look kindly on me, let thy holy eyes 

Bless me from the deep fulness of thy heart ; 

So shall my soul in its right strength arise. 

And nevermore shall pine and shrink and start. 

Safe-sheltered in thy full-souled sympathies. 

XVIII. 

Much I had mused of Love, and in my soul 

There was one chamber where I dared not look, 

So much its dark and dreary voidness shook 

My spirit, feeling that I was not whole : 

All my deep longings flowed toward one goal 

For long, long years, but were not answered. 

Till Hope was drooping, Faith well-nigh stone-dead. 

And I was still a blind, earth-delving mole ; 

Yet did I know that God was wise and good, 

And would fulfil my being late or soon ; 

Nor was such thought in vain, for, seeing thee. 

Great Love rose up, as, o'er a black pine wood, 

Round, bright, and clear, upstarteth the full moon, 

Filling my soul with glory utterly. 



438 SONNETS. 

XIX. 

Sayest thou, most beautiful, that thou wilt wear 
Flowers and leafy crowns when thou art old, 
And that thy heart shall never grow so cold 
But they shall love to wreath thy silvered hair 
And into age's snows the hope of spring-tide bear ? 
0, in thy childlike wisdom's moveless hold 
Dwell ever ! still the blessings manifold 
Of purity, of peace, and untaught care 
For other's hearts, around thy pathway shed. 
And thou shalt have a crown of deathless flowers 
To glorify and guard thy blessed head 
And give their freshness to thy life's last hours ; 
And, when the Bridegroom calleth, they shall be 
A wedding-garment white as snow for thee. 



XX. 

Poet ! who sittest in thy pleasant room, 

Warming thy heart with idle thoughts of love, 

And of a holy life that leads above, 

Striving to keep life's spring-flowers still in bloom. 

And lingering to snuff their fresh perfume — 

0, there were other duties meant for thee. 

Than to sit down in peacefulness and Be ! 

0, there are brother-hearts that dwell in gloom. 

Souls loathsome, foul, and black with daily sin, 

So crusted o'er with baseness, that no ray 

Of heaven's blessed light may enter in ! 

Come down, then, to the hot and dusty way. 

And lead them back to hope and peace again — 

For, save in Act, thy Love is all in vain. 



SONNETS. 439 

XXI. 
*' NO MORE BUT SO ? ^' 

No more but so ? Only with uncold looks. 
And with a hand not laggard to clasp mine, 
Think'st thou to pay what debt of love is thine ? 
No more but so ? Like gushing water- orooKs, 
Freshening and making green the dimmest nooks 
Of thy friend^s soul thy kindliness should flow ; 
But, if ^t is bounded by not saying " no,'' 
I can find more of friendship in my books, 
All lifeless though they be, and more, far more 
In every simplest moss, or flower, or tree ; 
Open to me thy heart of hearts^ deep core. 
Or never say that I am dear to thee ; 
Call me not Friend, if thou keep close the door 
That leads into thine inmost sympathy. 

XXII. 
TO A VOICE HEARD IN" MOUNT AUBURN. 

Like the low warblings of a leaf -hid bird. 

Thy voice came to me through the screening trees. 

Singing the simplest, long-known melodies ; 

I had no glimpse of thee, and yet I heard 

And blest thee for each clearly-carolled word ; 

I longed to thank thee, and my heart would frame 

Mary or Ruth, some sisterly, sweet name 

For thee, yet could I not my lips have stirred ; 

I knew that thou wert lovely, that thine eyes 

Were blue and downcast, and methought large tears. 

Unknown to thee, up to their lids must rise 

With half-sad memories of other years, 



440 SONNETS. 

As to thyself alone thou sangest o'er 

Words that to childhood seemed to say ''No More!" 

XXIII. 
ON" READING SPENSER AGAIN. 

Dear, gentle Spenser ! thou my soul dost lead, 

A little child again, through Fairy land, 

By many a bower and stream of golden sand. 

And many a sunny plain whose light doth breed 

A sunshine in my happy heart, and feed 

My fancy with sweet visions ; I become 

A knight, and with my charmed arms would roam 

To seek for fame in many a wondrous deed 

Of high emprise — for I have seen the light 

Of Una's angel's face, the golden hair ^ 

And backward eyes of startled Florimel ; i 

And, for their holy sake, I would outdare 

A host of cruel Paynims in the fight, 

Or Archimage and all the powers of Hell. 

XXIV. 

Light of mine eyes ! with thy so trusting look. 

And thy sweet smile of charity and love. 

That from a treasure well u plaid above, 

And from a hope in Christ its blessing took ; 

Light of my heart ! which, when it could not brook 

The coldness of another's sympathy. 

Finds ever a deep peace and stay in thee. 

Warm as the sunshine of a mossy nook ; 

Light of my soul ! who, by thy saintliness 

And faith that acts itself in daily life. 

Canst raise me above weakness, and canst bless 

The hardest thraldom of my earthly strife — 



SONNETS. 441 

I dare not say how much thon art to me 
Even to myself — and 0, far less to thee ! 

XXV. 

Silent as one who treads on new-fallen snow. 

Love came upon me ere I was aware ; 

Not light of heart, for there was troublous care 

Upon his eyelids, drooping them full low. 

As with sad memory of a healed woe ; 

The cold rain shivered in his golden hair. 

As if an outcast lot had been his share, 

And he seemed doubtful whither he should go : 

Then he fell on my neck, and, in my breast 

Hiding his face, awhile sobbed bitterly. 

As half in grief to be so long distrest. 

And half in joy at his security — 

At last, uplooking from his place of rest. 

His eyes shone blessedness and hope on me. 

XXYI. 

A GENTLENESS that grows of steady faith ; 
A joy that sheds its sunshine everywhere ; 
A humble strength and readiness to bear 
Those burthens which strict duty everlay'th 
Upon our soals ; — which unto sorrow saith, 
^' Here is no soil for thee to strike thy roots, 
Here only grow those sweet and precious fruits ; 
Which ripen for the soul that well obey^th ; 
A patience which the world can neither give 
Nor take away ; a courage strong and high, 
That dares in simple usefulness to live. 
And without one sad look behind to die 



442 SONNETS. 

When that day comes ; — these tell me that our lovt 
Is building for itself a home above. 

XXVII. 

When the glad soul is full to overflow, 

Unto the tongue all power it denies. 

And only trusts its secret to the eyes ; 

For, by an inborn wisdom, it doth know 

There is no other eloquence but so ; 

And, when the tongue's weak utterance doth suffice. 

Prisoned within the body's cell it lies, 

Remembering in tears its exiled woe : 

That word w^hich all mankind so long to hear. 

Which bears the spirit back to whence it came, 

Maketh the sullen clay as crystal clear. 

And will not be enclouded in a name ; 

It is a truth which we can feel and see 

But is as boundless as Eternity. 

XXVIII. 
TO THE EVENING-STAR. 

When we have once said lowly '^Evening-Star!'' 

Words give no more — for, in thy silver pride. 

Thou shinest as nought else can shine beside ; 

The thick smoke, coiling round the sooty bar 

Forever, and the customed lamp-light mar 

The stillness of my thought — seeing things glide 

So samely : — then I ope my windows wide. 

And gaze in peace to where thou shin'sfc afar. 

The wind that comes across the faint-white snow 

So freshly, and the river dimly seen, 

Seem like new things that never had been so 



SONNETS. 443 

Before ; and thou art bright as thou hast been 
Since thy white rays put sweetness in the eyeis 
Of the first souls that loved in Paradise. 

XXIX. 
EEADIKG. 

As one who on some well-known landscape looks. 

Be it alone, or with some dear friend nigh. 

Each day beholdeth fresh variety, 

New harmonies of hills, and trees, and brooks — 

So is it with the worthiest choice of books. 

And oftenest read : if thou no meaning spy. 

Deem there is meaning wanting in thine eyes ; 

We are so lured from judgment by the crooks 

And winding ways of covert fantasy. 

Or turned unwittingly down beaten tracks 

Of our foregone conclusions, that we see. 

In our own want, the writer's misdeemed lacks : 

It is with true books as with Nature, each 

New day of living doth new insight teach, 

XXX. 

TO , AFTER A SNOW-STORM. 

Blue as thine eyes the river gently flows 
Between his banks, which, far as eye can see. 
Are whiter than aught else on earth may be, 
Save mmost thoughts that in thy soul repose ; 
The trees, all crystalled by the melted snows, 
Sparkle with gems and silver, such as we 
In childhood saw 'mong groves of Faerie, 
And the dear skies are sunuy-blue as those ; 



444 



SONNETS. 



Still as thy heart, when next mine own it lies 

In love's full safety, is the bracing air ; 

The earth is all enwrapt with draperies 

Snow-white as that pure love might choose to wear — 

for one moment's look into thine eyes, 

To share the joy such scene would kindle there ! 



SONNETS ON NAMES. 



I. 

EDITH. 



A Lily with its frail cup filled with dew, 
Down-bending modestly, snow-white and pale. 
Shedding faint fragrance round its native vale. 
Minds me of thee, Sweet Edith, mild and true, 
And of thy eyes so innocent and blue, 
Thy heart is fearful as a startled hare. 
Yet hath in it a fortitude to bear 
For Love's sake, and a gentle faith which grew 
Of Love : need of a stay whereon to lean, 
Felt in thyself, hath taught thee to uphold 
And comfort others, and to give, unseen. 
The kindness thy still love cannot withhold . 
Maiden, I would my sister thou hadst been. 
That round thee I my guarding arms might fold. 

II. 

ROSE. 

My ever-lightsome, ever-laughing Rose, 
Who always speakest first and thinkest last. 
Thy full voice is as clear as bugle-blast ; 
Right from the ear down to the heart it goes 
And says, '^ I'm beautiful ! as who but knows ?^ 
Thy name reminds me of old romping days, 

445 



446 SONNETS ON NAMES. 

Of kisses stolen in dark passage-ways. 
Or in the parlor, if the mother-nose 
Gave sign of drowsy watch. I wonder where 
Are gone thy tokens, given with a glance 
So full of everlasting love till morrow. 
Or a day's endless grieving for the dance 
Last night denied, backed with a lock of hair. 
That spake of broken hearts and deadly sorrow 

III. 

MAKY. 

Dark hair, dark eyes — not too dark to be deep 
And fnll of feeling, yet enongh to glow 
"With fire when angered ; feelings never slow. 
But which seem rather watching to forthleap 
From her full breast ; a gently-flowing sweep 
Of words in common talk, a torrent-rush. 
Whenever through her soul swift feelings gush, 
A heart less ready to be gay than weep, 
Yet cheerful ever ; a calm matron-smile. 
That bids God bless you ; a chaste simpleness. 
With somewhat, too, of '^^ proper pride,'* in dress 
This portrait to my mind's eye came, the while 
I thought of thee, the well-grown woman Mary, 
Whilome a gold-haired, laughing little fairy. 

IV. 

CAROLINE. 

A STAIDNESS sobers o'er her pretty face. 
Which something but ill-hidden in her eyes, 
And a quaint look about her lips denies ; 
A lingering love of girlhood you can trace 



SONNETS ON NAMES. U7 

In her checked hiugh and half-restrained pace ; 

And, when she bears herself most womanly, 

It seems as if a watchful mother's eye 

Kept down with sobering glance her childish grace : 

Yet oftentimes her nature gushes free 

As water long held back by little hands. 

Within a pump, and let forth suddenly. 

Until, her task remembering, she stands 

A moment silent, smiling doubtfully. 

Then laughs aloud and scorns her hated bands. 

V. 

ANKE. 

There is a pensiveness in quiet Anne, 

A mournful drooping of the full gray eye. 

As if she had shook hands with misery, 

And known some care since her short life began ; 

Her cheek is seriously pale, nigh wan. 

And, though of cheerfulness there is no lack, 

You feel as if she must be dressed in black ; 

Yet is she not of those who, all they can. 

Strive to be gay, and striving, seem most sad — 

Hers is not grief, but silent soberness ; 

You would be startled if you saw her glad. 

And startled if you saw her weep, no less ; 

She walks through life, as, on the Sabbath day. 

She decorously glides to church to pray. 



THE END. 



A. L. BURrS PUBLICATIONS 

For Young People 

BY POPULAR WRITERS, 

52-58 Duane Street, New York. 



Bonnie Prince Charlie : A Tale of Fontenoy and Culloden. By 
G. A. Henty. With 13 full-page Illustrations by GORDON 
Browne. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. 

The adventures of the son of a Scotch officer in Fr^-nch service. 
The boy, brought up by a Glasgow bailie, is a rested for aiding a 
Jacobite agent, escapes, is wrecked on the French coast, reaches 
Paris, and serves with the French army at Dettingen. He kills 
his father's foe in a duel, and escaping to the coast, shares the 
adventures of Prince Charlie, but finally settles happily in Scot- 
land. 

" Ronald, the hero, is very like the hero of * Quentin Durward.' The lad's 
journey across France, and his hairbreadth escapes, make up as good a nar- 
rative of the kind as we have ever read. For freshness of treatment and 
variety of incident Mr. Henty has surpassed himself.'' — Spectator. 

With Clive in India; or, the Beginnings of an Empire. By 

G. A. Henty. With 12 full-page Illustrations by Gordon 

Browne. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. 

The period between the landing of Clive as a young writer in 
India and the close of his career was critical and eventful in the 
extreme. At its commencement the English were traders existing 
on sufferance of the native princes. At its close they were masters 
of Bengal and >f the greater part of Southern India. The author 
has given a full and accurate account of the events of that stirring 
time, and battles and sieges follow each other in rapid succession, 
while he combines with his narrative a tale of daring and adven- 
ture, which gives a lifelike interest to the volume. 

" He has taken a period of Indian Listory of the most vital importance, 
and he has embroidered on the historical facts a story which of itself is deeply 
interesting. Young people assuredly will be delighted with the volume. " — 
Scotsvian. 

The Lion of the North : A Tale of Gustavus Adolphus and the 
Wars of Religion. By G. A. Henty. With full-page Illus- 
trations by John Schonberg. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. 
In this story Mr. Hen y gives the history of the first i art of the 
Thirty Years' War. The issue had its importance, which has ex- 
tended to the present day, as it established religious freedom 
in Germany. The army of the chivalrous king of Sweden was 
largely composed of Scotchmen, and among these was the hero of 
the story. 

" The tale is a clever and instructive piece of history, and as boys may be 
trusted tp rea4 it conscientiously, they can hardly fail to be profited."— riwie* 



A. L. BURT'S PUBLICATIONS. 



The Dragon and the Raven; or, The Days of King Alfred. By 
G. A. Henty. With full-page Illustrations by C. J. Stani- 
LAND, R.I. 12mo, cloth, price |1. 00. 

In this story the author gives an account of the fierce struggle 
between Saxon and Dane for supremacy in England, and presents 
a vivid picture of the misery and ruin to which the country was 
reduced by the ravages of the sea-wolves. The hero, a young 
Saxon thane, takes part in all the battles fought by King Alfred. 
He is driven from his home, takes to the sea and resists the Danes 
on their own element, and being pursued by them up the Seine, 
is present at the long and desperate siege of Paris. 

" Treated in a manner most attractive to the boyish reader.''^— Athenceum. 

The Young Carthaginian : A Story of the Times of Hannibal. 
By G. A. Henty. With full-page Illustrations by C. J. Stani- 
LAND, R.I. 13mo, cloth, price $1.00. 

Boys reading the history of the Punic Wars have seldom a keen 
appreciation of the merits of the contest. That it was at first a 
struggle for empire, and afterward for existence on the part of 
Carthage, that Hannibal vv^as a great and skillful general, that he 
defeated the Romans at Trebia, Lake Trasimenus, and Cannae, 
and all but took Rome, represents pretty nearly the sum total of 
their knowledge. To let them know more about this momentous 
struggle for the empire of the world Mr. Henty has written this 
story, which not only gives in graphic style a brilliant descrip- 
tion of a most interesting period of history, but is a tale of ex- 
citing adventure sure to secure the interest of the reader. 

" Well constructed and vividly told. From first to last nothing stays the 
interest of the narrative. It bears us along as on a Jstream whose current 
varies in direction, but never loses its force." — Saturday Review. 

In Freedom's Cause : A Story of Wallace and Bruce. ByG. A. 
Henty. With full-page Illustrations by Gordon Browne. 

12mo, cloth, price $1.00. 

In this story the author relates the stirring tale of the Scottish 
War of Independence. The extraordinary valor and personal 
prowess of Wallace and Bruce rival the deeds of the mythical 
heroes of chivalry, and indeed at one time Wallace was ranked 
with these legendary personages. The researches of modern 
historians have shown, however, that he was a living, breathing 
man — and a valiant champion. The hero of the tale fought under 
both Wallace and Bruce, and while the strictest historical accuracy 
has been maintained with respect to public events, the work is 
full of "hairbreadth 'scapes " and wild adventure. 

" It is written in the author's best style. Full of the wildest and most re- 
markable achievements, it is a tale of great interest, which a boy, once he has 
begun it, will not willingly put on one side.'"— 27ie Schoolmaster. 



A. L. BURT'S PUBLICATIONS. 



With Lee in Virginia : A Story of the American Civil War. By 
G. A. Henty. With full-page Illustrations by Gordon 
Browne. 12ino, cloth, price $1.00. 

The story of a young Virginian planter, who, after bravely 
proving his sympathy with the slaves of brutal masters, serves 
with no less courage and enthusiasm under Lee and Jackson 
through the most exciting events of the struggle. He has many 
hairbreadth escapes, is seveial times wounded and twice taken 
prisoner; but his courage and readiness and, in two cases, the 
devotion of a black servant and of a runaway slave whom he had 
assisted, bring him safely through all difficulties. 

" One of the best stories for lads which Mr. Henty has yet written. The 
picture is full of Ufa and color, and the stirring and romantic incidents are 
skillfully blended with the personal interest and charm of the story." — 
Standard. 

By England's Aid ; or. The Freeing of the Netherlands (1585- 
1604). By G. A. Henty. With full-page Illustrations by 
Alfred Pearse, and Maps. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. 
The story of two English lads who go to Holland as pages in 
the service of one of " the fighting Veres." After many adven- 
tures by sea and land, one of the lads finds himself on board a 
Spanish ship at the time of the defeat of the Armada, and escapes 
only to fall into the hands of the Corsairs. He is successful in 
getting back to Spain under the protection of a wealthy merchant, 
and regains his native country after the capture of Cadiz. 

" It is an admirable book for youngsters. It overflows with stirrirg inci- 
dent and exciting adventure, and the color of the era and of the sc^ne are 
finely reproduced. The illustrations add to its attractiveness."— Posfon 
Gazette. 

By Right of Conquest ; or, With Cortez in Mexico. By G. A. 

Henty. With full-page Illustrations by W. S. Stagey, and 

Two Maps. 13mo, cloth, price $1.50. 

The conquest of Mexico by a small band of resolute men under 
the magnificent leadership of Cortez is always rightly ranked 
among the most romantic and daring exploits in history. With 
this as the groundwork of his story Mr. Henty has interwoven the 
adventures of an English youth, Roger Hawkshaw, the sole sur- 
vivor of the good ship Swan, which had sailed from a Devon port 
to challenge the mercantile supremacy o*" the Spaniards in the 
New World. He is beset by many perils among the natives, but 
is saved by his own judgment and strength, and by the devotion 
of an Aztec princess. At last by a ruse he obtains the protection 
of the Spaniards, and after the fall of Mexico he succeeds in re- 
gaining his native shore, with a fortune and a charming Aztec 
bride. 

" ' By Right of Conquest ' is the nearest approach to a perfectly successful 
historical tale that Mr. Henty has yet published."— ^icademy. 



A. L. BURT'S PUBLICATIONS. 



In the Reign of Terror : The Adventures of a Westminster Boy. 

By G. A. Henty. With full-page Illustrations by J. Sch6n- 

BERG. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. 

Harry Sandwith, a Westminster boy, becomes a resident at the 
chateau of a French marquis, and afttr various adventures accom- 
panies the family to Paris at the crisis of the Revolution. Im- 
prisonment and death reduce their number, and the hero finds 
himself beset by perils vs^ith the three young daughters of the 
house in his charge. After hairbreadth escapes they reach Nan- 
tes. There the ^irls are condemned to death in the coffin-ships, 
but are saved by the unfailing courage of their boy protector. 

" Harry Sandwith, the Westminster boy, may fairly be said to beat Mr. 
Henty's record. His adventures will delight boys by the audacity and peril 
they depict. . . . The story is one of Mr. Henty 's best.'"— ^Saturday 
Review. 

With Wolfe in Canada ; or. The Winning of a C^ontinent. By 
G. A. Henty. With full -page Illustrations by Gordon 
Browne. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. 

In the present volume Mr. Henty gives an account of the strug- 
gle between Britain and France for supremacy in the North 
American continent. On the issue of this war depended not only 
the d<stinies of North America, but to a large extent those of the 
mothei* countries themselves. The fall of Quebec decided that 
the Anglo-Saxon race should predominate in the New World; 
that Britain, and not France, should take the lead among the 
nations of Europe; and that English and American commerce, the 
English language, and English literature, should spread right 
round the globe. 

" It is not or\y a lesson in history as instructively as it is graphically told, 
but also a deeply interesting and often thrilling tale of adventure and peril by 
flood and field." — Illustrated London News. 

True to the Old Flag : A Tale of the American War of Inde- 
pendence. By G. A. Henty. With full-page Illustrations by 
Gordon Browne. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. 

In this story the author has gone to the accounts of officers who 
took part in the conflict, and lads will find that in no war in which 
American and British soldiers have be'jn engaged did they behave 
with greater courage and good conduct The historical portion of 
the book being accompanied with numerous thrilling adventures 
with the redskins on the shores of Lai e Huron, a story of exciting 
interest is interwoven with the general narrative and carried 
through the book. 

" Does justice to the pluck and determination of the British soldiers during 
the unfortunate struggle against American emancipation. The son of an 
American loyalist, who remains true to our flag, falls among the hostile red- 
skins in thnt very Huron country which has been endeared to us by the ex 
plolts of Hawkeye and Chingachgook."— TTie Times. 



A. L. BURT'S PUBLICATIONS. 



The Lion of St. Mark : A Tale of Venice iu the Fourteenth 
Century. By G. A. Hentt. With full-page Illustrations by 
Gordon Browne. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. 
A story of Venice at a period when her strength and splendor 
were put to the severest tests. The hero displays a fine sense and 
manliness which carry him safely through an atmosphere of in- 
trigue, crime, and bloodshed. He contributes largely to the vic- 
tories of the Venetians at Porto d'Auzo and Chioggia, and finally 
wins the band of the daughter of one of the chief men of Venice. 

" Every boy should read ' The Lion of St. Mark.'' Mr. Henry has never pro- 
duced a story more delightful, more wholesome, or more vivacious.'" — Satur- 
day Review. 

A Final Reckoning^: A Tale of Bush Life in Australia. ByG. A. 

Henty. With full-page Illustrations by W. B. Wollen. 

12mo, cloth, price $1.00, 

The hero, a young English lad. after rather a stormy boyhood, 

emigrates to Australia, and gets employment as an officer in the 

mounted police. A few years of active work on the frontier, 

where he has many a brush with b^th natives and bushrangers, 

gain him promotion to a captaincy, and he eventually settles 

down to the peaceful life of a squatter. 

" Mr. Henty has never published a more readable, a more carefully con- 
structed, or a better written story than this." — Spectator. 

Under Drake's Flag : A Tale of the Spanish Main. By G. A. 

Henty. With full- page Illustrations by Gordon Browne. 

12mo, cloth, price $1.00. 

A story of the days when England and Spain struggled for the 
supremacy of the sea. The heroes sail as lads with Drake in the 
Pacific expedition, and in his great voyage of circumnavigation. 
The historical portion of the story is absolutely to be relied upon. 
but this will perhaps be less attractive than the great variety of 
exciting adventure through which the young heroes pass in the 
course of their voyages. 

" A book of adventure, where the hero meets with experience enough, one 
would think, to turn his hair gray.''' — Harper's Monthly Magazine. 

By Sheer Pluck ; A Tale of the Ashanti War. By G. A. Henty. 

With full- page Illustrations by Gordon Browne. 12mo, 

cloth, price $1.00. 

The author has woven, in a tale of thrilling interest, all the de- 
tails of the Ashanti campaign, of which he was himself a witness. 
His hero, after many exciting adventures in the interior, is de- 
tained a prisoner by the king just before the outbreak of the war, 
but escapes, and accompanies the English expedition on their 
march to Coomassie. 

" Mr. Henty keeps up his reputation as a writer of boys' stories. * By Sheer 
Pluck ' will be eagerly re&d.'^—Athenoeufn. 



6 A. L, BURT^S PUBLICATIONS. 

By Pike and Dyke : A Tale of tlie Rise of the Dutch Republic. 
By G. A. Henty. With full-page Illustrations by Maynard 
Brown, and 4 Maps. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. 
In this story Mr. Henty traces the adventures and brave deeds 
of an English boy in the household of the ablest man of his age — 
William the Silent. Edward Martin, the son of an English sea- 
captain, enters the service of the Prince as a volunteer, and is em- 
ployed by him in many dangerous and responsible missions, in the 
discharge of which he passes through the great sieges of the time. 
He u timately settles down as Sir Edward Martin. 

" Boys with a turn for historical research will be enchanted with the book, 
while the rest who only care for adventure.will be students in spite of them- 
selves.'" — St. James'' Gazette. 

St. George for England : A Tale of Cressy and Poitiers. By 
G. A. Henty. With full-page Illustrations by Gordon 
Browne. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. 

No portion of English history is more crowded with great events 
than that of the reign of Edward III. Cressy and Poitiers; the 
destruction of the Spanish tieet; the plague of the Black Death; 
tbe Jacquerie rising; these are treated by the author in " St. 
George for England." The hero of tbe story, although of good 
family, begins life as a London apprentice, but after countless adi 
ventures and perils becomes by valor and good conduct the squire, 
and at last the trusted friend of the Black Prince. 

"Mr. Henty has developed for himself a type of historical novel for boys 
which bids fair to supplement, on their behalf, the historical labors of Sir 
Walter Scott in the land of fiction.''''— T7ie Standard. 

Captain's Kidd's Gold : Tbe True Story of an Adventurous Sailor 

Boy. By James Franklin FiTTS. 13rno, clotli, price $1.00. 

There is something fascinating to the average youth in tlievery 
idea of buried treasure. A vision arises before his eyes of swarthy 
Portuguese and Spanish rascals, with black beards and gleaming 
eyes — sinister-looking fellows who once on a time haunted the 
Spanish Main, sneaking out from some hidden creek in their long, 
low schooner, of picaroonish rake and sheer, to attack an unsus- 
pecting trading craft. There were many famous sea rovers in 
their day, but none more celebrated tban Capt. Kidd. Perhaps 
the most fascinating tale of all is Mr. Fitts' true story of an adven. 
turous American boy, who receives from his dying father an 
ancient bit of vellum, which the latter obtained in a curious way. 
The document bears obscure directions purporting to locate a cer- 
tain island in the Bahama group, and a considerable treasure 
buried there by two of Kidd's crew. The hero of this book, 
Paul Jones Garry, is an ambitious, persevering lad, of salt-water 
New England ancestry, and bis efforts to reach the island and 
secure the money form one of the most absorbing tales for our 
youth that has come from the press. 



A. L. BURT'S PUBLICATIONS. 



Captain Bayley's Heir : A Tale of the Gold Fields of California. 

By G. A. Henty. With full-page Illustrations by H. M. 

Paget. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. 

A frank, manly lad and his cousin are rivals in the heirship'of a 
considerable property. The former falls into a trap laid by the 
latter, and while under a false accusation of theft foolishly leaves 
England for America. He works his passage before the mast, 
joins a small band of hunters, crosses a tract of country infested 
with Indians to the Californian gold diggings, and is successful 
both as digger and trader. 

"Mr. Henty is careful to mingle instruction with entertainment; and the 
humorous touches, especially in the sketch of John Holl, the Westminster 
dustman, Dickens himself could hardly have excelled.*" — Christian Leader. 

For Name and Fame ; or, Through Afghan Passes. By G. A. 
Henty. With full -page Illustrations by Gordon Browne. 
12mo, cloth, price $1.00. 

An interesting story of the last war in Afghanistan. The hero, 
after being wrecked and going through many stirring adventures 
among the Malays, finds his way to Calcutta and enlists in a regi- 
ment proceeding to join the arujy at the Afghan passes. He ac- 
companies the force under General Roberts to the Peiwar Kotal, 
is wounded, taken prisoner, carried to Cabul, whence he is trans- 
ferred to Candahar, and takes part in the final defeat of the army 
of Ayoub Khan. 

"The best feature of the book— apart from the interest of its scenes of ad- 
venture—is its honest effort to do justice to the patriotism of the Afghan 
people."— Z)ai7y News. 

Captured by Apes : The Wonderful Adventures of a Young 
Animal Trainer. By Harry Prentice. 12mo, cloth, $1.00. 

The scene of this tale is laid on an island in the Malay Archi- 
pelago. Philip Garland, a young animal collector and trainer, of 
New York, sets sail for Eastern seas in quest of a new stock of 
living curiosities. The vessel is wrecked off the coast of Borneo 
and young Garland, the sole survivor of the disaster, is cast ashore 
on a small island, and captured by the apes that overrun the 
place. The lad discovers tbat the ruling spirit of the monkey 
tribe is a gigantic and vicious baboon, whom he identifies as 
Goliah, an animal at one time in his possession and with whose 
instruction he Lad been especially diligent. The brute recognizes 
him, and with a kind of malignant satisfaction puts his former 
master through the same course of training he had himself ex- 
perienced with a faithfulness of detail which shows how astonish- 
ing is monkey recollection. Very novel indeed is the way by 
which the young man escapes death. Mr. Prentice has certainly 
worked a new vein on juvenile fiction, and the ability with which 
he handles a diflScult subject stamps him as a writer of undoubted 
skill. 



S A. L. BURT'S PUBLICATIONS. 

The Bravest of' the Brave ; or, With Peterborough in Spain. 

By G. A. Henty. With full-page Illustrations by H. M. 

Paget. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. 

There are few great leaders whose lives and actions have so 
completely fallen into oblivion as those of the Earl of Peter- 
borough. This is largely due to the fact that they were over- 
shadowed by the glory and successes of Marlborough. His career 
as general extended over little more than a year, and yet, in that 
time, he showed a genius for warfare which has never been sur- 
passed. 

" Mr. Henty never loses sight of the moral purpose of his work— to enforce 
the doctrine of courage and truth. Lads will read ' The Bravest of the Brave ' 
with pleasure and profit; of that we are quite sure.''''— Daily Telegraph. 

The Cat of Bubastes : A Story of Ancient Egypt. By G. A. 

Henty. With full page Illustrations. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. 

A story which will give young readers an unsurpassed insight 
into the customs of the Egyptian people. Amuba, a prince of the 
Rebu nation, is carried with his charioteer Jethro into slavery. 
They become inmates of the house of Ameres, the Egyptian high- 
piiest. and are happy in his service until the priest's son acci- 
dentally kills the sacred cat of Bubastes. In an outburst of popular 
fury Ameres is killed, and it rests with Jethro and Amuba to 
secure the escape of the high-priest's son and daughter. 

" The story, from the critical moment of the killing of the sacred cat to the 
perilous exodus into Asia with which it closes, is very skillfully constructed 
and full of exciting adventvu"es. It is admirably illustrated." — Saturday 
Review. 

With Washington at Monmouth : A Story of Three Phila- 
delphia Boys. By James Otis. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. 

Three Philadelphia boys, Seth Graydon " whose mother con- 
ducted a boarding-house which was patronized by the British 
officers;" Enoch Ball, "son of that Mrs. Ball whose dancing 
school was situated on Letitia Street," and little Jacob, son of 
•' Chris, the Baker," serve as the principal characters. The 
story is laid during the winter when Lord Howe held possession 
of the city, and the lads aid the cause by a-sisting the American 
spies who make r gular and frequent visits from Valley Forge. 
One reads here of home-life in the captive city when bread was 
scarce among the people of the lower classes, and a reckless prodi- 
gality shown by the British officers, who passed the winter in 
feasting and merry-making while the members of the patriot army 
but a few miles away were suffering from both cold and hunger. 
The story abounds with pictures of Colonial life skillfully 
drawn, and the glimpses of Washington's soldiers which are given 
show that the work has not been hastily done, or without con- 
siderable study. 



A. L. BURT'S PUBLICATIONS. 



For the Temple: A Tale of the Fall of Jerusalem. By G. A. 

Henty. With full-page Illustrations by S. J. Solomon. 13mo, 

cloth, price $1.00. 

Mr. Henty here weaves into the record of Josephus an admirable 
and attractive story. The troubles in the district of Tiberias, the 
march of the legions, the sieges of Jotapata, of Gamala, and of 
Jerusalem, form the impressive and carefully studied historic 
setting to the figure of the lad who passes from the vineyard to 
the service of Josephus, becomes the leader of a guerrilla baud of 
patriots, fights bravely for the Temple, and after a brief term of 
slavery at Alexandria, returns to his Galilean home with the favor 
of Titus. 

" Mr. Henty's graphic prose pictures of the hopeless Jewish resistance to 
Roman sway add another leaf to his record of the famous wars of the world." 
— Graphic. 

Facing Death ; or. The Hero of the Vaughan Pit. A Tale of 
the Coal Mines. By G. A. Henty. With full-page Illustra- 
tions by Gordon Browne. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. 
•* Facing Death " is a story with a purpose. It is intended to 
show that a lad who makes up his mind firmly and resolutely that 
he will rise in life, and who is prepared to face toil and ridicule 
and hardship to carry out his determination, is sure to succeed. 
The hero of the story is a typical British boy, dogged, earnest, 
generous, and though " shamefaced" to a degree, is ready to face 
death in the discharge of duty. 

" The tale is well written and well illustrated, and there is much reality in 
the characters. If any father, clergyman, or schoolmaster is on the lookout 
for a good book to give as a present to a boy who is worth his salt, this is the 
book we would recommend."— Standard. 

Tom Temple's Career. By Horatio Alger. 12mo, cloth, 

price $1.00. 

Tom Temple, a bright, self-reliant lad, by the death of his 
father becomes a boarder at the home of Nathan Middleton, a 
penurious insurance agent. Though well paid for keeping the 
boy, Nathan and his wife endeavor to bring Master Tom in line 
with their parsimonious habits. The lad ingeniously evades their 
efforts and revolutionizes the household. As Tom is heir to 
$40,000, he is regarded as a person of some importance until by 
an unfortunate combination of circumstances his fortune shrinks 
to a few hundreds. He leaves Plympton village to seek work in 
New York, whence he undertakes an important mission to Cali- 
fornia, around which center the most exciting incidents of his 
young career. Some of his adventures in the far west are so 
startling that the reader will scarcely close the book until the last 
page shall have been reached. The tale is written in Mr. Alger's 
most fascinating style, and is bound to please the very large class 
of boys who regard this popular author as a prime favorite. 



10 A. L. BURT'S PUBLICATIONS. 

Maori and Settler: A Story of the New Zealand War. By 
G. A. Henty. With full-page Illustrations by Alfred Pearse. 
12rao, cloth, price $1.00. 

The Renshaws emigrate to New Zealand during the period of 
the war with the natives. Wilfrid, a strong, self-reliant, coura- 
geous lad, is the mainstay of the household. He has for his friend 
Mr. Atherton, a botanist and naturalist of herculean strength and 
unfailing nerve and humor. In the adventures among the Maoris, 
there are many breathless moments in which the odds seem hope- 
lessly against the party, but they succeed in establishing them- 
selves happily in one of the pleasant New Zealand valleys. 

"Brimful of adventure, of humorous and interesting conversation, and 
vivid pictures of colonial life.'" — Schoolmaster. 

Julian Mortimer|: A Brave Boy's Struggle for Home and Fortune. 

By Harry Castlemon. 13mo, cloth, price $1.00. 

Here is a story that will warm every boy's heart. There is 
mystery enough to keep any lad's imagination wound up to the 
highest pitch. The scene of the story lies west of the Mississippi 
River, in the days when emigrants made their perilous way across 
the great plains to the land of gold. One of the startling features 
of the book is the attack upon the wagon train by a large party of 
Indians. Our hero is a lad of uncommon nerve and pluck, a brave 
young American in every sense of the word. He enlists and holds 
the reader's sympathy from the outset. Surrounded by an un- 
known and constant peril, and assisted by the unswerving fidelity 
of a stalwart trapper, a real rough diamond, our hero achieves the 
most happy results. Harry Castlemon has written many enter- 
taining stories for boys, and it would seem almost superfluous to 
say anything in his praise, for the youth of America regard him 
as a favorite author. 

"Carrots:" Just a Little Boy. By Mrs. Molesworth, With 
Illustrations by Walter Crane. 12mo, cloth, price 75 cents. 

" One of the cleverest and most pleasing stories it has been our good for- 
tune to meet with for some time. Carrots and his sister are delightful little 
beings, whom to read about is at once to become very fond of.''''— Examiner. 

"A genuine children's book; we've seen 'em seize it, and read it greedily. 
Children are first-rate critics, and thoroughly appreciate Walter Crane's 
illustrations."— Punc/i. 

Mopsa the Fairy. By Jean Ingelow. With Eight page 

Illustrations. 12mo, cloth, price 75 cents. 

" Mrs. Ingelow is, to our mind, the most charming of all living writers for 
children, and ' Mopsa ' alone ought to give her a kind of pre-emptive right to 
the love and gratitude of our young folks. It requires genius to conceive a 
purely imaginary work which must of necessity deal with the supernatural, 
without running into a mere rior of fantastic absurdity; but genius Miss In- 
gelow has and the story of ' Jack ' is as careless and joyous, but as delicate, 
as a picture of childhood.''''— Eclectic. 



A. L. BURT'S PUBLICATIONS. 11 

A Jaunt Through Java : The Story of a Journey to the Sacred 
Mountain. By Edward S. Ellis. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. 
The central interest of this story is found in the thrilling ad- 
ventures of two cousins, Hermon and Eustace Hadley, on their 
trip across the island of Java, from Samarangtothe Sacred Moun- 
tain. In a land where the Royal Bengal tiger runs at large; 
where the rhinoceros and other fierce beasts are to be met with 
at unexpected moments; it is but natural that the heroes of this 
book should have a lively experience. Hermon not only dis- 
tinguishes himself by killing a full-grown tiger at short range, 
but meets with the most startling adventure of the journey. 
There is much in this narrative to instruct as well a~ entertain the 
reader, and so deftly has Mr. Ellis used his material that there is 
not a dull page in the book. The two heroes are brave, manly 
young fellows, bubbling over with boyish independence. They 
cope with the many diflBculties that arise during the trip in a fear- 
less way that is bound to win the admiration of every lad who is 
so fortunate as to read their adventures. 

Wrecked on Spider Island; or. How Ned Rogers Found the 
Treasure. By James Otis. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. 
A '* down-east" plucky lad who ships as cabin boy, not from 
love of adventure, but because it is the only course remaining by 
which he can gain a livelihood. While in his bunk, seasick, 
Ned Rogers hears the captain and mate discussing their plans for 
the willful wreck of the brig in order to gain the insurance. Once 
it is known he is in possession of the secret the captain maroons 
him on Spider Island, explaining to the crew that the boy is 
afflicted with leprosy. While thus involuntarily playing the part 
of a Crusoe, Ned discovers a wreck submerged in the sand, and 
overhauling the timbers for the purpose of gathering material 
with which to build a hut finds a considerable amount of treasure. 
Raising the wreck; a voyage to Havana under sail; shipping there 
a crew and running for Savannah; the attempt of the crew to 
seize the little craft after learning of the treasure on board, and, 
as a matter of course, the successful ending of the journey, all 
serve to make as entertaining a story of sea-life as the most 
captious boy could desire. 

Geoff and Jim: A Story of School Life. By Ismay Thorn. Il- 
lustrated by A. G. Walker. 12mo, cloth, price 75 cents. 

" This is a prettily told story of the life spent by two motherless bairns at 
a small preparatory school. Both Geoff and Jim are very lovable characters, 
only Jim is the more so; and the scrapes he gets into and the trials he en- 
dures will, no doubt, interest a large circle of young readers."— C/iwrc/i 
Times. 

"This is a capital children's story, the characters well portrayed, and the 
book tastefully bound and well illustrated/''— Sc/iooZmasfer. 

" The story can be heartily recommended as a present for boys."— 
Standard. 



12 A. L. BURT'S PUBLICATIONS. 

The Castaways ; or, On tlie Florida Reefs. By James Otis. 

12iiio, clotb, price $1.00. 

This tale smacks of the salt sea. It is just the kind of story 
that the majority of boys yearn for. From the moment that the 
Sea Queen dispenses with the services of the tug in lower New 
York bay till the breeze leaves her becalmed off the coast of 
Florida, one can almost hear the whistle of the wind through her 
rigging, the creak of her straining cordage as she heels to the 
leeward, and feel her rise to the snow-capped waves which her 
sharp bow cuts into twin streaks of foam. Off Marquesas Keys 
she floats in a dead calm. Ben Clark, the hero of the story, and 
Jake, the cook, spy a turtle asleep upon the glassy surface of the 
water. They determine to capture him, and take a boat for that 
purpose, and just as they succeed in catching him a thick fog 
cuts them off from the vessel, and then their troubles bei:in. 
They take refuge on board a drifting hulk, a storm arises and they 
are cast ashore upon a low sandy key. Their adventures from 
this point cannot fail to charm the reader. As a writer for young 
people Mr. Otis is a prime favorite. His style is captivating, and 
never for a moment does he allow the interest to flag. In " The 
Castaways " he is at his best. 

Tom Thatcher's Fortune. By Horatio Alger, Jr. 12mo, 

cloth, price $1.00. 

Like all of Mr. Alger's heroes, Tom Thatcher is a brave, am- 
bitious, unselfish boy. He supports his mother and sister on 
meager wages earned as a shoe-pegger in John Simpson's factory. 
The story begins with Tom's discharge from the factory, because 
Mr. Simpson felt annoyed with the lad for interrogating him too 
closely about his missing father. A few days afterward Tom 
learns that which induces him to start overlandfor California with 
the view of probing the family mystery. He meets with many ad- 
ventures. Ultimately he returns to his native village, bringing con- 
sternation to the soul of John Simpson, who only escapes the con- 
sequences of his villainy by making full restitution to the man 
whose friendship he had betrayed. The story is told in that en- 
tertaining way which has made Mr. Alger's name a household 
word in so many homes. 

Birdie : A Tale of Child lafe. By H= L. Childe-Pemberton. 

Illustrated by H. W. Rainey. 12mo, cloth, price 75 cants. 

" The story is quaint and simple, but there is a freshness about it that 
makes one Hear again the ringing laugh and the cheery shout of children at 
play which charmed his earlier years." — New York Express. 

Popular Fairy Tales. By the Brothers Grimm, Profusely 

Illustrated, 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. 

" From first to last, almost without exception, these stories are delightful," 
■^Athenoeum, 



A, L. BURT'S PUBLICATIONS. 13 

With Lafayette at Yorktown : A Story of How Two Boys 
Joined the Continental Army. By James Otis. 12mo, cloth, 
price $1.00. 

The two boys are from Portsmouth, N. H., and are introduced 
in August, 1781, when on the point of leaving home to enlist in 
Col. Scammell's regiment, then stationed near New York City. 
Their method of traveling is on horseback, and the author has 
given an interesting account of what was expected from boys in 
the Colonial days. The lads, after no slight amount of adventure, 
are sent as messengers — not soldiers — into the south to find the 
troops under Lafayette. Once with that youthful general they 
are given employment as spies, and enter the British camp, 
bringing away valuable information. The pictures of camp-life 
are carefully drawn, and the portrayal of Lafayette's character is 
thoroughly well done. The story is wholesome in tone, as are all 
of Mr. Otis* works. There is no lack of exciting incident which 
the youthful reader craves, but it is healthful excitement brim- 
ming with facts which every boy should be familiar with, and 
while the reader is following the adventures of Ben Jaffreys and 
Ned Allen he is acquiring a fund of historical lore which will 
remain in his memory long after that which he has memorized 
from text-books has been forgotten. 

Lost in the Canon : Sam Willett's Adventures on the Great 
Colorado. By Alfred R. Calhoun. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. 
This story hinges on a fortune left to Sam Willett, the hero, 
and the fact that it will pass to a disreputable relative if the lad 
dies befou be shall have reached his majority. The Vigilance 
Committee of Hurley's Gulch arrest Sam's father and an associate 
for the crime of murder. Their lives depend on the production 
of the receipt given for money paid. This is in Sam's possession 
at the camp on the other side of the canon. A messenger is dis- 
patched to get it. He reaches the lad in the midst of a fearful 
storm which floods the canon. His father's peril urges Sam to 
action. A raft is built on which the boy and his friends essay to 
cross the torrent. They fail to do so, and a desperate trip down 
the stream ensues. How the party finally escape from the hor- 
rors of their situation and Sam reaches Hurley's Gulch in the very 
nick of time, is described in a graphic style that stamps Mr. Cal- 
houn as a master of his art. 

Jack : A Topsy Turvy Story. By C. M. Crawley-Boevey. 

With upward of Thirty Illustrations by H. J. A. Miles. 

12mo, cloth, price 75 cents. 

" The illustrations deserve particular mention, as they add largely to the 
interest of this amusing volume for children. Jack falls asleep with his mind 
full of the subject of the fishpond, and is very much surprised presently to 
find himself an inhabitant of Waterworld, where he goes thougn wonderful 
■^nd edifying adventures. A handsome and pleasant boQk.""—X,i^erari/ World. 



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14 A. L. BURT'S PUBLICATIONS. 

Search for the Silver City : A Tale of Adventure in Yucatan. 

By James Otis. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. 

Two American lads, Teddy Wright and Neal Emery, embark 
on the steam yacht Day Dream for a short summer cruise to the 
tropics. Homeward bound the yacht is destroyed by fire. All 
hands take to the boats, but during the night the boat is cast upon 
the coast of Yucatan. They come across a young American 
named Cammings, who entertains them with the story of the 
wonderful Silver City, of the Chan Santa Cruz Indians. Cum- 
mings proposes with the aid of a faithful Indian ally to brave 
the perils of the swamp and carry off a number of the golden 
images from the temples. Pursued with relentless vigor for days 
their situation is desperate. At last their escape is effected in an 
astonishing manner. Mr. Otis has built his story on an historical 
foundation. It is so full of exciting incidents that the reader is 
quite carried away with the novelty and realism of the narrative. 

Frank Fowler, the Cash Boy. By Horatio Alger, Jr. 12mo, 

cloth, price $1.00. 

Thrown upon his own resources Frank Fowler, a poor boy, 
bravely determines to make a living for himself and his foster- 
sister Grace. Going to New York he obtains a situation as cash 
boy in a dry goods store. He renders a service to a wealthy old 
gentleman named Wharton, who takes a fancy to the lad. Frank, 
after losing his place as cash boy, is enticed by an enemy to a 
lonesome part of New Jersey and held a prisoner. This move re- 
coils upon the plotter, for it leads to a clue that enables the lad to 
establish his real identity. Mr. Alger's stories are not only un- 
usually interesting, but they convey a useful lesson ot pluck and 
manly independence. 

Budd Boyd's Triumph ; or, the Boy Firm of Fox Island. By 
W^iLLiAM p. Chipman. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. 
The scene of this story is laid on the upper part of Narragansett 
Bay, and the leading incidents have a strong salt-water flavor. 
Owing to the conviction of his father for forgery and theft, Budd 
Boyd is compelled to leave his home and strike out for himself. 
Chance brings Budd in contact with Judd Floyd. The two boys, 
being ambitious and clear sighted, form a partnership to catch 
and sell fish. The scheme is successfully launched, but the un- 
expected appearance on the scene of Thomas Bagsley, the man 
whom Budd believes guilty of the crimes attributed to liis father, 
leads to several disagreeable complications that nearly caused the 
lad's ruin. His pluck and good sense, however, carry him through 
his troubles. In following the career of the boy firm of Boyd & 
Floyd, the youthful reader will find a useful lesson — that industry 
and perseverance are bound to lead to ultimate success. 



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